Poetry & Prose


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


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