We warm a die of singular pips
when panic grips the crossroad.
A man, his heart explodes,
showering us in glitter and confetti.

Our silent companion, his face a blank slate  
and long gnarled roots for his fingers,
moves past us like a glacier.

I place my hand on the swept pavement
and melt its impression into the frost.
No more wax to quiet the sirens I fear.
The benign season has past
and chance is quick upon us.