In theory, Hell in winter must be great. Even now,
With the ice on the ground, eyelashes scorch – the pages of
The Greek poetry book in my hands become more
The color of coal. Suddenly everything seems to depend
On how you combine place and time. This is Eden,
On January 5th, and the color that you thought
To be green and the sky that you thought to be blue
Is darker than black. Tears freeze before they
Reach the cheek, and the laughter – there is no laughter.
I was taught that the sun brings heat, but no teacher,
No preacher, no mom, no dad, no poet taught me
Who and why brings the cold. With this pencil I will
Draw a line on top of the all the tributes to the
Summer nights, the beaches, the warm sand that were
Ever written. I guess because what I am trying to say is
That in theory, Hell in winter must be great. It will be hot
Enough to wear a bathing suit and cold enough not to burn.
