broken traction, 22 degrees

someone peel my face off this blacktop
keep singing, all I can hear now
is my tounge scraping the gravel,
looking for the last drops of spilt chianti
and freezing breath, dropping like hail.
blood and wine are indistinguishable
again, sea of glass tinted red, building
upward, against gravity (as I give in)
it's fragile in a way distance isn't
but I wouldn't know that, all I know is
this isn't a real parkling lot, just a black, friday
impression left behind in the air
as I drain through cracks in the ice
as we drag our way back, away from
serene landscape, it's almost first thaw
anway, but right now it's 22 degrees, and
I shiver as she cuts off the bleeding