The Winter horizon prisms the setting sun.
Its icicle splinters the color into spectrum
bands that circle the earth like bright wool mufflers
packed ’round a snowman’s head, while the digit
of night slowly pushes back the cuticle
on a polished, manicured moon. The hand
of buildings stretches and opens to the sky
its elegant black glove, torn at the finger tip,
where that sharpened crescent of moon pokes through.
Below the throat of the horizon, the city’s
newly donned jewels begin to gleam,
winking like precious gems and distant suns,
As the Star,
cool and slender-necked Manhattan, commences
to invent her frosty evening face.