the city sleeps wrapped
in gray dawns and dreaming

of snow, a different place
from what it was

this time last month,
last week. we pretend

the rain falls only
for the soft echoes

on bedroom rooftops, and i
am reminded

of how slippery
januaries can be,

their hunger
that seeps

through exhaust-
stained glass and

seeds my fingertips
with a dark need

for some sort of
acceptance

in warm flesh
or willing words.