The tinged blue of winter light
sparked silent new.
The air is still, thin;
smoked cigarettes let waft
their breath, from pock-faced
men and young mothers, them
beanied and untied shoes,
greased a little, the film
of sleep, slumber, death.
Them trimmed and fresh,
calmly gazing on their
spring lambs, who fuddle,
muddle, waddle, dawdle.
The seen unseen in tiny air,
blown fro and hither, the mirror
surface of spidery strands, that
appear and disappear as
light runs lengths along.
Frost falls as dew, wings that flap
in near unison; hollow bones make
winter birds like airborne sand,
whipping curved spacetime as
though it bound only those
Young eyes make spring
of winter and youth is never
hurt by age.
Chirps and kicks, sputtering
gravel under busy shoes.
Time exists but is not felt,
sun is sun and skip is skip,
nothing more than is as is
as thing - sksh, sksh, sksh -
no more, no less.

This is rad. Big points for Amy Sillman.