I’d love to see the city
in the snow; mushroom micro-clouds
surround my foot's most recent impression
displayed by its aftermath
its consequence.
The chilly frozen vodka burn
in wintertime
is the air we’ll drink.
Blow it out in tufts of tissues
steam arises from the tent we tend.
How it would surround rosy cheeks of ours,
cherried with cooperation and comfort.
Holding each other for warmth,
and other reasons, too.
-Grant Durando
8/2/12
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