It was grace—not warm, not holy,a pale flareover frozen estates.The morning had already been spentpassing your namehand to handlike cheap heat.Your ears must have burnedthe way frost bites metalon railings at dawn.You have not made shelter.You’ve carved hallways of silencethrough rooms,split yourself—hard face,hidden face—and left doors swinging wideto winter.Do you sleep in your car,breathing steamed…