(...but...) Sunlight (...is close enough that it might as well be one)

Mar 28 23:24 UTC 2001

Although the sunlight seems about to tear
on through the clouds, winter's last breath can last
a thousand years.  The sky's lungs freeze.  The air's
so cold that each car's muffler drags a ghost

made out of condensation, raw, packed full
of holes the color of bruises or shade.
Pure air can taste like injury.  The pull
of asphalt fills my lungs up with riptide.

By april, every spirit has more holes
than substance, or is sharpened like a knife.
What's left of middle ground is hard to find.

What's left is sunlight:  middle-of-the-road,
dim but apparent even through the ice,
repeating, steady, bright as the center line.

response 2 of 2:

Mar 31 21:39 UTC 2001

Flows ... better?  Well, that's good, then.  I'd been worried that this one
didn't make sense on its own.