Outlast the Winter (Draft #3)

In the springy depths of tumbled turves green spiky leaves-full
I lay fetus balled
white tight knuckled fists grasping veiny knees
where maybe I might outlast the winter.

Light shine from the sun crescendos as an arc that too suits the star fruit
carambola eaten at intervals
even though it goes almost unknown among the gringos of the north
and maybe I might outlast the winter.

Reality ice skating scratching patterns
upon an azure deep sky where planes
seen from our shores as what they send
slowly expanding across the atmosphere
streams of thin clouds like long futon pillows
castaway in the basement or second bedroom:
only up there can comtrails become chemtrails draggling behind
or spikes of light become like dagger backstabs at the moment of death:
maybe I might outlast the winter.

Letters written
house or cell phone
communication satellite Skype-like
tech bubbles rising through electronic brine.
IM me FB me Message me
maybe I might outlast the winter.

Adrenaline filled by septic sub-pump
too embarrassed to speak I nevertheless breathe each breath:
exhaling I leave entrails behind;
inhaling, me, the contaminated air;
and then proceeding to pestilent pock marks upon my soul
who want to know who makes me hot as fire on a cold winter night.
Want to tell me what but what
who tell them what?