14,
the number of fingers you were holding
up in my dream,
in alaska
the day the colors
were gone from the landscape.
in a monochrome,
we nailed your feet to the glacier
"bleed out"
and you stared with your
loosed eyes at the
defunct axis
roving overhead like a rabid dog
and then circling under.
held yourself half cocked,
held with certainty
seven fingers on each spindled hand.
i, dry and silent
pressed my lips open on the frozen dirt
"this will not fill us up"
while the wind puts
its mouth all over you.
the cold has made us
shameless.