Not right in winter

something grows in winter

bites the fractured ice of long pools

on the corrugated rooves

comes to a stalactite point

in a chill room

orange streetlights shadow of a sodium flame

haze the ceiling

night’s promise, a hollow place filled with dreams of drowning

roll and stare up on waking

nothing but the white blankness

of a Montreal hillside

the slight warmth of an imprint in the sheets

rises

takes flight

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