Congregate and listen
to stories of the cold.
Visible as a mist
in the vacant bliss of night
in the moon’s reflection,
everywhere in an amphitheatre
of tangible manhole steam.
A vision of you,
obscured like a dream,
a long angle shot
of streetlight shifting boulevards
with hands in the pockets,
faceless and scarved
in a taxi conduit of coughing tailpipes.
Can these stories be revealed in a moment’s warmth?
Or shivering in a naked decision?
You’ll be fumbling for words
in cafe sanctuary,
mourning this lack of precision,
needing the cover of each other
to complete the prowling exposition
of illuminated apartment buildings.
Bitter’s the taste of victory over apathy, idleness,
the awareness that the cold will call you out
to once again witness
ice on the tongue of its expanse.
Precious this silent gallery of crows,
with mythical angles,
they are black and white photos
gliding over rooftops of snow.
The red brick is underneath a city sealed
in a thick grey bearded storm
confronting the winter-borne hangman trees.
The leaf’s journey left them bare
but the environs solidified you there
for the time being…
dangling like so many icicles
from the windows of memory.
A feeling of home,
the reeling shadows that roam
to the corners
revealing the echoes
of a foundation that has grown.
Listen, it is still moving
to position itself
under a solitary world.
It is still covering the pages
of an unbounded sky
stretched like a skin,
a film over the eye’s
impressionable myriad shades
of water finding coves,
finding beauty in the cold’s expressions,
of their migrant habits what can be told?
In their rituals of ebb and flow?
You found yourself long ago
washed up on an island that tendrils
with the tender thrills
of endless skin to borrow.
This is how you’ll continue
to crawl and surrender to
this unpredictable weather
that ushers in the future.