there was a hurricane this february

my muscles ache from holding myself
upright. every step is a flat foot on ice
and the radio above the cafe dish station says
spring is coming, but i will not believe it
until the streets become clean
like i am, right now: their blank shells cracked to reveal potential life
under months of old grime.
snowflakes become drops of water which splatter against the wall near the front door
, spelling out the same words i whisper
from behind a wet dog shake motion blur: "this city is a death trap." my bones sting from holding myself
up to the light. this bodies, like most bodies, is a new one
and i haven't memorised its shadow yet. melted precipitation drips over my ears
to say, "there is always fresh darkness to explore."
is it safer to walk down the middle of the road
where engine heat and friction have melted the seasonal threats
or to slide on the sidewalk? cars can stop;
gravity cannot. my ankle is so weak already.
every step is a tiptoe on frosty cement
and my body is so sore from holding myself
because you won't.