We've walked too far, December-sharp air clicking around us,
a blind man's stick
seeking an edge;
tap, tapa 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.
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