Brattle Street florist

The window hangs close up against the night, away from the ocean wind. A fog of chrysalis held down by silk threads of green and pink eyelet design, circling

blue eyes stone curious, quizzical,

from the pale horse's head haltered with streamers

across lines of pine branches scattering

berries into the small silent darkness. The Christmas tree with Victorian figures in muffs and fur collars warm against the icicles of snow, sleighs filled high with miniature gifts tinted and bowed, candles bubbling up reflecting lights, turning the memory's shadows

Across the way a movie house quietly playing

Charlie Chaplin

a cane twisted into sharp, flickering angles

calling out that player piano

strolled into the Square to hear the ragged music that

no one plays. Down Brattle Street edges the night sun, yellow wings flat against the smoky glass, cocoons along the icy, disembodied shore.

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