Poem to Snowy Afternoon

The lonely tethered along:
I wear my balloon face
And this city bears time and place,
A dumb Mother Hubbard hugging
Her children all to the brutal banks
Of her thighs.

I am foggy color and shape,
See myself incessant in windows
As a ghost imposed on the bright wares inside,
Ever turning the dishes of my spectral eyes aside.

I try to ply the street with this pale version,
But blood beats me to it:
No face in the glass is ever mine
As long as its double remains
Echoed in crude blooms of flesh and bone.

There are no frozen dancing
Pieces of the clouds that light
On my cheeks without dying.
I am still a sack of hair, woolen damp
Stuck with bits of sky,
Melting fervent words
Silent back into my brain.