Out the (floor to ceiling) windows I peer,
witnessing the luminous love affair
blue, white, tungsten burnt orange / amber,
ejaculated into pools on the cement.
Outside the wind drives the people.
Faster! Seek shelter to block out the cold.
Trees almost naked from wind
and fading light
They reflect a new, artificial sun.
There, the sun shines no more,
shades of black and burnt orange yellow
overcome our dank reality.
Inside, the staccato of fast walking feet,
jerks me to my nouveux techno-modern surroundings.
Where things are ersatz.
Where, inside, those windows block the
ever-present wind.