The chill ascends from feet to knees,
The fever sings in mental wires.
If to be warmed, then I must freeze
And quake in frigid purgatorial fires
Of which the flame is roses, and the smoke is briars.

They clear the table, leaving us to finish our wine. There were reasons
Things I wanted thought I needed that caused me to invite you here
But none of that really matters, what I am now seeking is to truly be
With you without artifice or worry or want or even need… And as my hand
Reaches for yours he brings a French-press coffee and two rhubarb tarts.