The cold that bites you,
the whistling winds. 

The polished floors,
ice and holes where

Eskimos flirt with fish.
Narwhal tusks into

Chinese medicine: Sex
dust. And the candy stalls-

bergs, dirty with sugar.
The colden days. March,

madness. Easter looms
in eggy bonnets, the tiny

chicks on wire feet. Press
yourself up to the Digital

Signage- catch the pixels
that spark into breath.