oh winter; oh youre on me like a lover, sweating me up, its 70 degrees out, but im not fooled; i know its you, underneath where the piles of leaves would be, here, if there were trees. summers woozy and slow, but youre a chokehold, the plucking and dripping of the heater in the night, last-minute mojitos, baths on the floor when the weak light comes in the window and cant get out, and you Madame before all others, wont let me forget that i fail in my faith; what is easy, what is not.