Nah, the cold is fine for now.
Style-statements aside, knowing the contours
of one's own breath so intimately vows
to be an interesting approach.
The disgruntled bus plodded slowly,
hoping to fool the amber marker bulb
to posit a couple of rounds of sleep.
The counterdraft resembles the shape
of my face in collision; it wanted to tickle
the nose, to sabotage the box, but it failed.
I tried to backlog some wit instead,
but the atmosphere calls for itself
a ginger taste, and a slight tilt of the head.
Symbolic dither prays for us in unison.
It matches speed with the auto, whose
yellow (now glinting russet) shakes hands
with the green smell of wishfulness. Its
reluctant pauses (speedbumps?) does
make me think, of music being released,
friends under the spot, the runaway scents
that pay for every movement.