truly naked

I’ve have been naked
in my life
once
or twice—cold
clamp flesh
nipples hard as
they pull away from
the very breast they mount
every movement of air
a bristle of
down
a shiver’s reach for
warmth—naked in
winter is what I remember
as being
real—the
seasonal sweaty need
to shed
clothes—a
hot July kiss just seems
too—easy
naked in the summer
beaded skin slick imitation of
open
the truth is
winter
the exposure of the need
of warmth
where ice
storms in the sky until
the trees chime—snow
wrapped world blind—cold
crunching steps slowed the clock
fires built with wet
kindling—slowly
coaxing the flame to
feed from the bones of
driftwood found
scattered on the shore of
a winding river—yesterday’s
summer

psgates