Winter, Turn Home

We've walked too far, December-
sharp air clicking around us,

a blind man's stick
seeking an edge; tap, tap

a nickel hammer percussing
a large frozen bell.

The city is sleeping, December;
white smoke from our lips,

the stacks of brick chimneys,
nostrils of brown carriage-horses.

These are prayers to be said
in cold, darkened alleys where

shadows creep over snow
like silent black wolves

and yellow-lit windows
(square shaped moons)

detach from their stone.
We've walked far, December,

the city is sleeping,
we finally turn home.