Not here, no snow— unless you count
the tiny floating filaments that thaw
before they touch the glass
or the ground. Drypoint of trees
almost entirely bare.
Gardens, the campus, streets
quiet and grey. Flickering lights
at the corner drugstore
which is open only a few
Under the viaduct, a solitary duck
hunched into its cape of feathers.
Close your eyes: imagine the sound
of explosions far away against velvet
dark— all the beautiful bright colors
arcing upward before returning to oblivion.
But don’t read more into this than what
it is: the way the wind goes into the high
grass; the way, after you drain your glass,
someone asks if you would like another.