Twist a Little Closer, Now

Only the surest convulsions
Can register as pulse.

Hold me as you would a grape
Jointed in a socket
On an arborescent vine
Hanging past the eaves
Where the wind beats
Its distal edge along the glass that rings

And we look up into the cold
Without removing our chins from our scarves

Next to us the window displays
Snowflakes that outbrave my patience
Shaking to the engine in my left ear
Whose resonance softens them to
Droplets and here I thought
That finding all the questions was the point

Like so many cones, floating under the bus
We shook ourselves apart.

We managed to pan out the yellow generation.