It's February. It still smells like winter and it's still cold outside. All the water is frozen down to the bottom. There's no tip to the iceberg. Quiet grows exponentially in relation to how cold it becomes. Outside it's creeking like an old house. Outside I feel the street. Vestigial limb that I've been poking obsessively. Needles & pins, hopped up, I massage it to ease the feelings out. The street an old organ falling off.
