break this on my back, tell me i'm still a man

I used to keep cold salamanders
in the breast pockets of my wool coat,
leave them there to sleep
beside my waning lungs.
I could feel them, turn, twist,
dance inside their dreams,
like tops on the surface of the ocean.
They never spoke & never woke,
not to stir or speak,
save to say,       goodnight.

At night, when I walked
down empty streets, skipping
between lamplight, I felt
the cold they did.
The fog at my feet
became the fog in my eyes,
and I would drive myself mad.

See I wanted to squirm
& dance like the salamanders
against my chest.
I wanted to see what they saw,
in the cavernous home of my coat,
get lost in darkness,
lose the ability to speak,
save a repetition,
like a frozen & cracking record.

But, one morning, I woke up,
threw the coat over my shoulders,
and knew.
I spoke nothing of nothing,
saw darkness of dark,
straining, praying, to still
feel the cold they felt.
But, no fog crept to my feet,
no haze bled to my eyes,
and no cold salamander
danced against my lungs.