The weak winter sun
kisses
glassy snow,
but
not with passion
that
would make lips part
or
flesh melt into lascivious love.
It
slides without a sound
into
the pincushion metropolis,
a
single coat of yellow
splashed
on the sides
of
city scrimshaw, spires
of metal, stone and glass,
on
streets bathed in epiphany
for
the blink of a circadian eye.
Pedestrians
lumber
in
and out of hope,
in
and out of color splayed narrow,
arms
and legs plodding through honey,
the
air thick and cold,
mosquitoes
eventually caught in amber.
It
is a tease, a prostitute
slipping
along gray pavement
with
the promise of joy
at
an hourly rate
until
spring reforms the miniskirt,
until the long thaw of love
turns
green under a godly sun.
~William Hammett
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