Unwind your coiled cold, your ice-tight sleety machine; the clock-shock of its minute tick but wakes me to the wrist-bound world, but wakes me to my three-named enemy: time, December, and the ticking wind. And therefore thanks to you my trinity, my three-personed implacable cold God: with eyes as open as the handcuff’s closed I can now find that woman that driven by the sprung whirlwind we coil in our own Spring.