“I want a poem about a cold city.”
They say the sky churns
the calm and soft exhale
but it never yawns in my city mechanical.
The somber groan from puddles grey,
effortless past the blurs I heave.
We walk faster now-
feeling red lights feathering
our silent leather coats
bumping faded eyes by the subway.
This darling snarl-
of my hanging winter-
new needles made of chills
for the streetscape blue.
Onward the metal,
over and under forgether,
our flocks splashing,
for every moment
the silent sliding without yearning.