There is only one thing a poet writes about: survival.
Which is really of love existing beyond being unloved.
It’s the longing of the striped way of an endangered species.
So rare street lights sputter blizzard instead of light
when light tries to speak her.
Cause it has to be real light that speaks her,
the articulate un-language of snow,
language not hooded.
Cowled, the street longs for the forest he was.
Without her light.