The great snow passes. Leaves the city quiet for a minute, the city that's been quiet for a year. We come out of our caves later than usual to survey the damage; it's just enough to delight the children, but not enough to halt the life. Do you remember the blizzards of 2010, how we owned the West Village streets where no cars could go? I dragged a heavy suitcase down the subway stairs at Houston and unearthed in the South Pacific, what a life this is. I wrote a kind word to my father and he replied in tears, perhaps there is magic left in love.
Wished for a life this year
it's brand new.
The car is buried. Heat steams out of the radiator in great clouds. An avocado plant grows despite itself on the windowsill.
I haven't told you yet,
but I'm gonna be with you.
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