matches
it's so cold that the streets
turn black to glitter.
it's so cold that the sky
can't decide on a colour
and remains a liminal sigh
of ice & paper & sheets
by day¯
I look up (or out)
in time for the slow twirl
of a sky full of matches,
droves of them, lighter than thoughts
& falling¯soon seeds
waiting
for the small signals
of whisps of sulphur,
whisps of carnival
& magnesium portraits
of a sky echoing
the night fallen dim over roads¯
for the lights & lights & lights
to go out.
for the year with its solar mind
to go out.
KS
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