poem #47

the city is the color of ice.
buildings like slate rectangles
scrape the grey sky.
the chalk-grey sidewalk
angles between buildings,
frames the asphalt.
I walk the geometric lines
while the wind gushes the boundaries,
floods the streets,
drenches my coat.
my hands are deep in my pockets,
my head bowed,
both against the cold,
and to it.

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