and the landscape recedes. A new sort of
snow has fallen, making the old snow seem
less perfect, more filthy; insanely laden with
bacteria. I scope out a new tree to throw
my coat into so when you walk under it
you'll think of me and my French amber.
Please recall my dance moves and my mission
to restore faith in the glory of love, or what remains
of our ability to walk amid the slippery stones.
I want nothing more than a coffee with an
extra shot of espresso and oh, perhaps
a pen and a napkin and something soft
and red and significant, like a cardinal
in a box of cotton.