Walk away from glacial echoes
of tin cups
and star-shaped staircases
where second
crowd behind you
like pinpoints and periods

Inside my skull
a wind gallops overhead
pushing for an opening
like moths
beneath a rafter of obsidian
Through empty streets a new language
discovers with haste
identities forged in blue ink
Across vacant fields
winter covers itself
in white lace

Shadows approach
I emerge slowly
an alphabet of silence
clinging to the breaths of icicles