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.