bear hands

walk past hammocks

there's rain

there's

sleeping dew

you can smell

my burnt hair

the fire types

madly

telling stories

of hot air

bare shoulder

and

all the smoke

the chimney let loose.

i haven't seen

snow

since the

friendly inn

where the

roadside swelled

and my fingertips

burned

we spoke slow

and there

was nowhere

to go.