winter in chains


cold seeps in despite the blowing furnace
perhaps of the heart,     words from former love
or friend faraway estranged and lonely
shiver-dimpled back up against some wall
real or imagined and the reaching out
comes in spastic blows to and fro against
those thousand natural shocks and fears only
mankind can offer     .  .  .     always the aching
needs half-realized and then emptily.
maslowe fallen at his pyramid’s foot
child sacrificed to gods of need and want
and arms empty of impossible trust   —
it’s okay, though;     longstanding family
traditions, son:     our wheel of destiny.

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