The city never lacks poetry
- only my eyes to see it.
I have come this way for years
without ever noticing how
diamonds dissolve
in the January cold and
speckle the dawn they way
they do in this moment
at the corner of
of Churchill and Byron.
I can almost hear them
falling from the eggshell sky
as the wind paws in
from the Canadian Shield
and whacks the
old brick laundromat
that billows steam
like chimes into the
face of the frozen winter.
Clouds evaporate
over the avenue
as cars go coughing
down to Richmond and
diamonds swirl like vodka
up the scarf and over the face
of the woman with
pretty mittens who
disappears with a bulging basket
through the shining metal door.
© 2010
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