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As the stores close, a winter light |
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opens air to iris blue, |
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glint of frost through the smoke |
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grains of mica, salt of the sidewalk. |
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As the buildings close, released autonomous |
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feet pattern the streets |
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in hurry and stroll; balloon heads |
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drift and dive above them; the bodies |
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aren't really there. |
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As the lights brighten, as the sky darkens, |
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a woman with crooked heels says to another woman |
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while they step along at a fair pace, |
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"You know, I'm telling you, what I love best |
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is life. I love life! Even if I ever get |
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to be old and wheezy-or limp! You know? |
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Limping along?-I'd still ... " Out of hearing. |
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To the multiple disordered tones |
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of gears changing, a dance |
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to the compass points, out, four-way river. |
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Prospect of sky |
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wedged into avenues, left at the ends of streets, |
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west sky, east sky: more life tonight! A range |
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of open time at winter's outskirts. |
