two weeks and the ice still isn't gone. the
hulls of cars and the blades of
shovels have carved out the main arteries
of commerce, but a few half-formed
tumors in neglected corners still
bristle with the gray of the
city, frozen thick and hard as granite.
most are craggy bluffs pocked with
cavities; others are spiny, almost
ferrous, mowkawed out at odd angles.
days the world sat clean and barren, motion
seemed unthinkable, but now it thrums
with an alien pulse. everyone has forgotten
what it means to go in the streets, how
dust swims in sharp dawn light, the
crushed marlboro box on the corner.
wheels whirl over the slick, barely
keeping traction. this world is not our
world. nothing new is under
the sun, but something
might be over it.
February-ish 2025