'Visual poetry"

The cold, coming out with the
  sages, snail-
  stiff as me,
easy to scan behind the wheel,

is grey but scared—
  a deathly oblong (in heraldic terms),
  ol' smoky
who looks a bit lost, too

And the ice, liking to run
  on wooden legs
gives the storefronts along the way
  the

  punctual
  stony
  look
of all the mixed exotic fruit (inside)

ever to be spared the green
  of moss
  (of course)
The signs look swollen, too