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Solemnly the cold feasts on the leveling chaos,
peaks of emotion in a glittery heap, teeth of ice
picking clean the bones of songs played on loop
yesterday and sang along to so feverishly every
time but today are suddenly passé, old news.
Curve of the road dipping into a view, twelve-
color sunset sky to the left; sweep of raven
black to the right, perforated by a grid of
windows, flickering lives. The winter speaks
only in extravagance, stranger to moderation,
art of erasure calligraphized across streetscapes
in white ink and shiver. There are no politically
correct headlines among the salt-encrusted cars
and lonely park benches.

The old year pulled away from the port like a
Viking ship, taste of ash and dirges speckling the
ocean while a birth is forced with ritual dances
and confetti. Morning slithers in past the dime-
a-dozen weary, looking for ways to carry
possessions and prized griefs over the cold
and find none. All the deserted bus stops and
huddled strangers invoking both longing and
forgetting. It’s not the snow, but what is
snow-like about it: six-sided, beautiful,
unconditionally bound to the locus of the
wind, that makes that first day an irony and a
microcosm, by superstition, of what the future
has in store.

untitled photo
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