This is fall-down weather.
The sky laid out a rink. We have ourselves
sleet street.
Our eyes and the ground gleam,
conspiring to trash us.
The wind draws our voices.
It’s less the ice out to trip us than the light, we decide.
That crash
of winter air reflects on our faces. Tricky.

This is a game the street will play sometimes.
It reminds us of the one in which the sidewalk, overnight,
becomes cratered. In that one we fall too.
All the games involve clamor and geometry.
This is a game of structure.

Don’t rush the thoughts. They form like the thin membrane of a yolk,
encasing, clarifying.
The eyespot of egg is awake.
It reminds us of the noon glare in a scavenged sky, after rain.
The idea bears a tension we want to burst.
Games are tempting. The street puts its palms out
and resists us.

This is walking weather.
Our questions slip and the sky whisks order into the runny disarray.
The cold tempers the bowl.