February

In February, the run-off to the reservoir is frozen.
I spend countless night falling asleep with the lights on,
stepping over salted wooden steps & bird feather.
I am tired of sharing.
In New York, the subway stations are just as cold as it is outside.
You can’t believe how heavy the lids get in February,
or how the glare is enough to send any sensible person
right into the divider. A simple belief in the guiding line.
Everyone is driving fast in February and looking for parking.
No one tried to sell me anything and I am insulted.
I am certain I will only think of myself in February
& that you will allow me. Every morning you can read
about killings and smoke stacks if you choose.
The sun is strong in February, casting out over meadows of industry.

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