Wrist Deep

Headed to work or walking home, wrapped tight, pressed down from all sides by the cold, I am unable to look up at the buildings yet. With a coffee streaming off its heat I make my way into the waterways of cashmere and flesh. Warmth, warmth, their frozen breath seems to call. Sunlight, their red-brushed cheeks declare. And I too, like them, like a seed sailing on a slipstream fast as subway tunnel wind, am waiting; waiting to settle, to open.