The reach of bare limbs
across snowy fields
where things live beneath;

we sit inside
licking lips
over creamed pastries
in the funeral basket.

Bumps along genetic material
herald change in the form of
tom-tom beats
and blown unicorn horns

Listen: as skin gathers
something like grace takes shape
of rivers converging

An ancient truth squeezes
its way to form whatever fits
into a new fist
so it can be dropped again

My sweetheart knows
wind will not stay on the hilltop
and our dance shifts with the sun

In a little pocket of night,
I cup my hands around
my mouth and breathe deeply
in, out
like a whisper of a name
while visions fill me of treetop flight
and his lips on mine
softly
and for a few moments
I am held
before light intrudes.

can’t help smiling
at all the serious umbrellas
with foul tempers below

the awkward rushing
from building to building
make them look like waltzers
scrambling in the rain

This night is full of cold.
There are no blossoms.
My hands are curled, one inside the other
just as he would hold them.
The bluish-blackening sky is fresh,
ready to trade in the day’s cares
for night’s folly and play.
There is no sound but of muffled wind
pushing along the snow.
I button up against outside forces.
This night is full of cold.