Late Winter

Sitting


in a comfortable chair
on the third floor of the Whitney center.

Chunks


of ice packed snow slip off the
Basilica's dome — gradually picking
up speed then crash into the roof
of the sanctuary.

Oaks


in Loring park are weighted
— heavy with last night's snow.
Last night my

lover


opened the window
— much too early in February—
before we slept.
The

“glow”


kept me warm under the intoxicating smell of sex.