winter sweeps these streets

we sweep these city streets, with faces grim and cold, the glass upon glass crime, glassed in, like citi streets, run owned by, the body sleeping, crumpled up against the atm, a warm, but well lit spot.

on the lechmere T, two kids texting, one with a CD titled "star fucking hipsters," a trip to cambridge made successful, reading the map, lacing the shoes stylishly.

we bleet these city sheep, well lit and all, and fleece these gritty streets, like these greaseballs.

flit amongst the pantheon of faces, the humanity laid bare, wheelchair and cane dragging bicyclists, the full money spectrum of face made up, something hidden, scarves and hats and hefty jacket prices, these shoes or those shoes, these feet or those feet, these streets or whose?