Orange is turning purple green as the harbingers
of a February sun wipe slates to a shine.
I am enticed out and about to where the moor’s wind
has descended and become a street-corner bully
using its blade on my eyes; the rhombus doorway
now has blurry edges and my cheeks are wet. I walk.
Later, the grumpier of Brian’s waitresses asks,
Why don’t you ever have an egg with your breakfast?
Returning, I sway. Wrapped in duvet, I wait for sleep.