Cold breath waters winter,
Then our lake effects earthworks.
Plunked mud, junk trinkets,
Bricked without Pharaoh’s straw,
Spat out from chilled lips
Toward town’s hand-sanded walls.
The water cycle has belted out
Blue bergs of bird-mess,
Round post-dock pillars
Gather gull-friends like strung buoys.
Toes toddling over Jogging Brand’s circular
Thighs encased as if perishable.
Base pairs, pear shaped:
“Links of Hot Pink.”
Undrained melt becomes pools,
Drops near May enough to color
When sprung from plumed beaks.
Meantime a windbreaker down by the moss
Grips his Puff Dog to chest, flecks his gaze west-ho a ten-pace:
“Why, it’s the Barred Ape, bare and striped with sun!”