To be sick in the heart of winter. No. To be sick with a winter’s heart. No. To be sick with winter for you—is that the love I feel? A perpetual inner December? Does to love mean to worry, to be a worrier on the snowy field of another’s face? Once, you said you were worried I’d get my brothers, your other (truer?) sons, sick. More than once. The both of you. Said. This. Sick with what, neither of you could say out loud. Get out before you get them sick, too. & now the country we live in believes everyone with a face like ours is sick. Our sick faces, sick countries, go back before you get us
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