Rind

The radiator hums a hollow beat,

while the draft finds the marrow of my feet.

I pull an orange from the ceramic bowl,

chilled through its skin, hard and whole.

My thumb digs in but the peel just breaks,

snapping off in sharp, bitter flakes.

Under the nail, the sting starts to bloom,

matching the rot in the corner of the room.

White frost climbs the window's wooden spine,

where the sash and the winter intertwine.