The air needs to be prepared:
scarf over face, furnace
in the basement. We breathe on our hands
to resuscitate. I pull my hood up for its halo

of warmth, this night that draws us out,
this simple night. Some of us choose
to live outside. Every morning, chimneys
pour smoke before the rising sun.

A nice English village. Others
have no choice. We wheel trash bins
to the curb for the wombs of garbage trucks

crawling through the neighborhood
like exhausted saints, carrying away debris,
leaving absolution behind.