Snow

in this charming quarter, someone always loses a shoe (a sneaker, a

croc, a gladiator sandal)

on the last day of summer you waited for me by the green

gates. I rode up on my bicycle (ticking spokes and

trepidations) and you grinned from ear to ear – we are teeth

we are cheese we are pets in the city!

we stroll around the grounds weakly perpendicular

without maps or navigations. you lie spreadeagled on the

grass, my wings at your chest, the afternoon around us

nonchalant.

inside the windows are amber, blue and green, I

don’t see horses grazing in the fields, I don’t hear cicadas

mating. the corridor’s a hushed limousine, your door yields

shelves of braille, and your room is a pink-striped

eiderdown –

premium economy, you said – I laughed and you

pushed me and I shrieked and we fell onto the bed and the

eiderdown kicked us off and shook its feathers all around us