With the cold this morning
the blue of the sky seems washed white
and painful to see
and the moon a dead fingernail
chased by the weak sun
There is a fountain
improbably
jetting up white water
and steam just below a hill
past the parking lot
it looks like a white hot volcano
it's tumbling flow rising over frozen
grass, it's steam crystalizing in air
it looks inviting, a warm rescue in frigid wind
but I know it would
give me nothing
but grief
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