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Insulation

Poetry & Prose | March 7, 2016

Main street in winter

bare asphalt, cars and

blue-tinted smoke from

fresh wood burning

 

We pedestrians

tense our shoulders

despite layers of fabric and

air between us

 

Scratched throats retract and

avoiding each other’s eyes

we blow our noses into tissues we found

folded in the pockets of our coats

 

But if the winter sang

in raw air through our voices

we would become

trumpets