I’m outside and the air is so crisp it’s turned brittle
When I move, my hair cracks with electricity
As if with each step I take, I displace
And crinkle the wafer oxygen.
My hair, it is poised like a snapping electric halo,
And I think how many angels have also had feet
Which knew this frozen, frosty soil like mine do.
What a shame we could not have met and compared notes.
Above is a ceiling, nearer than people credit to be.
There is no navy shroud tonight,
Seasoned with the universe.
It is not even a black curtain,
But instead a piece of smoke fogged glass, graying.
Above the briery penthouses of the evergreen boundaries,
Against which the glass rests,
Is a blush of light, to the North, tattle of a city.
They call it light pollution, a lightening of the sky
Due to artificial, phosphorescent, perpetual pantomimes of noon: streetlights
And I see two electric halos,
One belonging to me
One the heavens,
And I think how funny that
Without the dry, horrid winter air,
or the residue of a wasteful city of men,
No halos would exist.
