The cranes are at it again, necking
Overhead, do they think we cannot see them?
Picking up blue pallets & dusting
Off the fresh powder snow
Dropping one, it falling and thumping
On the fresh powder snow
At a woman’s feet – cursing,
Her fist held up to the indifferent cloud
That would have made a photograph
Or a graph, how many people
Deathed, murdered, killed
Yearly from heavenly bodies
In the making and unmaking
Of the towers of cards
