In the dream, my hands are ice.
It is as if the ice-storm herself
had taken her bony fingers to my hand
held it there a while, until my hands turned
dead, white and grey, why the blood had
gone missing! Has nobody noticed?
So when you see and that look of concern
moves fast across your fast, a brief emotion,
you take my own small hands in yours,
rubbing and blowing your hot breath
to my palms til they are warm, later
rubbing them balms and unguents,
you palm me back to life and my blood
runs rich as claret sluicing through my veins.