Tail-fins

one vantage takes
time to understand.
the wind wild,
the snow packed
against brick, red
with desire.
magic potions tremble
in beakers.
if these liquids
could flow,
the wind’s crystals
might serrate, slash,
might blast Boston’s
neat history, replace it
with scenes from factories,
their brick-red hints
of pain crashed against
spiffy Cadillacs double-parked
outside meat markets,
waiting for that slice
of sirloin wrapped
in white paper,
the beast’s blood
oozing through,
onto luxury,
fifties tail-fins flashing away
to deep, dark recessed
garages, footmen
ready to open
the kitchen door,
madmen stepping out
into the frost.