A Cold Existence

It's colder now, in California
where a walk on the beach requires
a coat and scarf, where the sea
looks angry and dark as winds fingers
snap and pop its metallic surface.

It's colder now, in my heart, sky
a great grey blanket, puffed up clouds
as if it gathered the feathers of birds
who flew into its mouth and sewed them
to its jacket.

In the morning, the fog gallops in,
a ghostly herd of wild horses whose
hoofbeats are the wind, whose nostrils
steam with exertion. Up they stride,
to a point of no existence and quietly
dissolve.