Night's chill parried by
Tea or tobacco leaves
Slick gradient of a sky
Until housing cuts rough
Disguising true horizons
And their warmth of whatever within
Flanked by twelve houses
Built by twice the hubris
As to be within speaking distance
Of this village of backyards
Yet communicate
In the alien language
Of light switches.
Bedrooms are fireflies
In an open field of brick flora
Backdropping the safety of
All of our bad habits
Struggling as we like
We share in the disconnect of
Our wrought ice age
Marked by the jingling of keys.
There's more here, but that will be found at another time.