“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.