a cotton-coloured sky sheared with wiping hands

foggy windows

when I'm with you through the windshield until

the frame gives and it follows is to the ground

the crows roared Poe loud and low in metronome flow

and floe that hides more than it shows and grows and grows and grows

until we're too cold to move move move

solid

and I was naive to believe the street strips skin

stretches it thin over drum kits like canvas

and lets the beat sound low and loud