Uncertain Times

At uncertain times black ice sheers the wind, The nights snorts a frigid fog into the fumes of idling cars. Ohio, once was a light in a hissing bowl. Land was laid out like a plain bible, it offered salted potatoes to the frozen and freezing, it played a wheezy bellows into rural glimmers. This night knows how to fang a wrist. Grit nips our tender tongues. The lights of bistros cannot withstand their desolate backyards. A scree of black curb can be crossed, but not by the lightly shod. At such times, Autumn lends a shivering hand at its own burial. After the sermon, small ice sculptures of raw priests, congeal into humps and heaps. A sweeping wind pushes rotting leaves into vacant lots.