Cold Stone

Facades of houses chipped
in 1910, their white frames
pasted and haloed with ice,
igloo windows, sorbet porch,
steaming to the touch.
Sky folds down, listerine blue,
till the whitewash fronts ache
like a child's cream teeth.
Tree trunks bulge like melons,
faceless, wheezing chalkily
about frozen sap and finches
popping their spots. Chimneys,
painted vanilla, stand up straight
like flasks blowing smoke rings,
cotton pourings pale as slosh
you scoop out of the bottom
of the freezer at four am.
The sky drinks them, folding
again, the final crunch and gasp
of heaven's hydraulic mouth.