The Sixth Borough is now in Antarctica.












The sidewalks are covered in ice;









the stained glass of the public library is

straining under the weight of the snow.






There are frozen fountains in frozen neighborhood parks,






where frozen children are frozen at the

peaks of their swings–the frozen ropes holding them in flight.



The tzitzit of frozen little Jewish boys are frozen, as are
the strands of their frozen mothers’ frozen wigs.



Livery horses are frozen mid-trot, flea-market vendors are frozen mid-haggle,
middle-aged women are frozen in the middle of their lives.



The gavels of frozen judges are frozen between guilty and innocent.

On the ground are the crystals of the frozen first breaths of babies,

and those of the last gasps of the dying.