Brooklyn Baggett
Immutable

It is February-cold in New York,
and everywhere
buildings spew their warm contents
like god-whales: stone and metal.
Dense clouds in the distance,
manifest purple-white
between emptiness
and open pipes,
Plume straight up––
so cold even the wind can’t move. 
Vanishing above the last form of itself
into the unshaped sky:
immutable:
carried off like spent emotions.

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