PENKNIFE

freshest of winds, tingling skin
hair is being spat out and swallowed back in
wind-water cry from the small of the eye
tear from the tear duct streams to the ear
bloodblister lips, fingerless fingertips
the creature the cold is, laughs as it whips
a nugget of warm in the pit of the arm
dig down into it and smother the palm

this poem has a nice title, i think