Walking with a memory of you
under my umbrella
to the bus.
Eating a breakfast sandwich
in the rain.
I stopped to argue my case
but you were not there.
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.