Your Parka Trimmed in Fur

We are surrounded by milky coffee

steaming out of cups on white saucers.

A bit of bread, blackberry jam.

Gloves float by the café window, carried

off by gold leaf clouds. Which means

it may snow. All afternoon

we admired the small white hands

of basil flowers growing on the windowsill,

learning a new language of short grey light.


Underground, we ride from one bar

to the next. I’m admiring your parka

trimmed in fur, your hair falling

in smooth dark waves over the hood.

A flood of fluorescence is strapped

to the ceiling, observing

our slow climb to street level.

There is a parade above us: the sky

throws handfuls of snowflakes

and even the winds call out our names,

now that they found all the vowels

we contain, the small inventions

of each breath.