porcelain
her stiletto
slips

despite the cold
from the hard earth
crocus

rustle of the wind
tires on wet road
the city

This morning just
before spring, the light
lengthens, and the hair
of the train station girls
runs a glossy bay.
I think of your hair
and the brighter days ahead.

snow blowing
across a grey sky
gulls wing west
towards the refuge
of some parking lot

snow-filled nest
I call it the house
of my age
but it never was
it’s already gone

wanting to
push you against the wall
tug up your skirt
I note the regularity
of the sidewalk cracks

No One Expects the Spanish Inquisition

I typed let’s get l–
the phone predicted lunch
but I wanted
lost
in each other’s eyes

five years in this house
and still fishing with my toes
for the last step

hard frost
the schoolgirl’s skirt
and white legs