Shiver Me

The winds come,
from the east,
down the volcano's shoulders,
the glacial lace, the snow,
the ice, unravelling.
There will be
no scalding cauldron,
no apocalypse
of brimstone riding fire,
yet.  This mountain
sleeps and shivers.

The winds find me,
my tattered coat,
my threadbare philosophy,
its contradictions;
the fabric dissolves.  My skin
is soon scattered.
It has been
torn of me, abraded
to be worn
by the tall, brittle grasses,
the fences, the barbed wire smiles
of twelve year old girls,
on middle school playgrounds.

Shivering, self-conscious,
they are feeling
the fragile buds
of confidence emerging
on their bony chests.  The boys
don't even realize
their nuts are stored
in secret chambers,
their sexuality withdrawn
until the spring
will fling this virgin
into the yawning caldera
slowly waking.

.