The Stripes of  Winter Wear

Winter's truth is a
terrifying nakedness.

Maybe a tongue shred
on a bridge rail built too short.

Not a death-defying mini-skirt.
Unlingual contact.

The slow pat of bone
into the ends of once-fucking flesh.

Lines bent, smudged,
not improving, though lingered over.

Funny thing my not recalling
your ever wearing a bra before.