Photosynthesis Can Go Fuck Itself, I Guess(or, Winter In New York)

The sky is impassive,
the sun the same mean one
that batters the desert,
but the clouds here
are exclusively ours.

Freeze, freeze, more freeze.
It thaws, I hear a bird chirp
and then croak.
The subway burps me out,
pissy, overdressed,
and I,
swaddled,
(or I feel as though I am)
waddle,
navigating deceptive largesses
of the city's stinking sub-zero pule.

But if I didn't,
if I instead lay under a mold of blankets,
hand in my panties,
tears running down my cheeks
like spores in
stop-motion
fast-forward,
hair dirty with self-neglect
slash
cry for help,
I would only decompose further,
and the sky would cease to matter,
at all.