As the stores close, a winter light 
    opens air to iris blue, 
    glint of frost through the smoke 
    grains of mica, salt of the sidewalk. 
As the buildings close, released autonomous 
    feet pattern the streets 
    in hurry and stroll; balloon heads 
    drift and dive above them; the bodies 
    aren't really there. 
As the lights brighten, as the sky darkens, 
    a woman with crooked heels says to another woman 
    while they step along at a fair pace, 
    "You know, I'm telling you, what I love best 
    is life. I love life! Even if I ever get 
    to be old and wheezy—or limp! You know? 
    Limping along?—I'd still ... " Out of hearing. 
To the multiple disordered tones 
    of gears changing, a dance 
    to the compass points, out, four-way river. 
    Prospect of sky 
    wedged into avenues, left at the ends of streets, 
    west sky, east sky: more life tonight! A range 
    of open time at winter's outskirts.