A bittersweet bloom I hold aloft,
Beneath the unerring storm drain.
How would stillness serve your unforgiving will?
A warning I won't heed for acclimation.
To be rid of the refuse, I must pull on the band
And secure it squarely, woven in the belt loops.
To be rid of this infallible cold front, however,
Involves more than shivering in sonder.
