The two encased in glass
hear their teeth unchatter
in the frigid dream. Streetlight
imitates the moon, if skewered
by silver pole, vined by wayward
squirrels, on their own journeys
to the light, without the wintered pair.
But underneath rushes no heat,
no pulse to their painted blushes.
The sheen in their eyes, no reflection,
merely globs of white designed
to deceive us, into thinking breath
unwithered, and orbs mystical.