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It is winter
The wind is picking up
Newspapers raze through the streets like kites
It is winter
Newspapers raze
It is winter, winter
The tin cans still lie, nearly rattling
The tin cans still lie, past the gutters and the lids
The tin cans still lie, nearly rattling
The tin cans still lie, past the gutters and the lids
The cogs of loss are shifting.
Grind together crackling in stones.
Together cold hands and raised shoulders
Topside callous hands, a blue drape.
Today I will see the fathers again.
They stand next to slides with laughter.
The suppressed heaven and tall buildings topple
hard as glass serrations grind the hollow truth