This City is Melting



In the end,

icicles dangle off the edge of the roof, regardless.

Frozen striations that point to the ground,

sharp as the tip of a thawing pen.

Winter’s just a pressure change–some warm air

to make glass knives cascade and shatter on the sidewalk

that floods the road where whiteness combusts in thuds

on a blank blanket that seeps into the greys and browns of grease and gravel,

so icebergs islands of last month’s snowfall

float in the briny lagoons of this afternoon.

This is the beginning.




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