the cold gray
whale like
smile some fever
of blue sky
two coins wheel
from a torn pocket
down the road
the sound a child hears

there is a north wind
that freezes the eye
into pinpoints
a fever knots the body
like a balloon
and crosstown
the factory whistle
blows early
silhouettes stitch the darkness
with quick needles of light
in a parade so routine
life wonders
if night can weave a cocoon
to warm the blood
until morning
now street lamps and neon
kick on, blinking momentarily,
with steady juice
buzzing magically
through a thousand wires

. . .I bury my fists into my jacket
frozen they sleep like stones
my breath steams the windows
where the broken hands of fathers
open empty tables, and the quiet whispers
of mothers nourish the dreams
of children with winter fires
and Spring
sometimes I am a desert
and wait for rain,
or lost travelers
stopping for sleep