overheard at the subway platform: "the train is coming. that's so cute, i just smiled."

people display an uncanny sense of poetry when it's cold. is the advertised advent of another ice age - global warming's ironic isotope - going to usher in a new age of poetry? language's ecological return?

two stops later the subway operator gets inspired: random act of kindness toward the runner-up-the-stairs, reopens the doors to spare him from night chill's dog bite. things begin to acquire crystalline shapes in fahrenheit's lower 40s. gestures become simpler, movements get stripped down and choreographed to an urgency.

mode: rushing to get home...