one blizzard in january, new york
blizzard of one, roving.
breath of melancholy crossing with
a glacial pang. look how the snow
drifts, unchanged since horace, straining
branches that can barely sustain their
white weight. when i reach the field,
stuttering over the icy embers that
numb all my extremities, i think,
o how simple our desires are. in this
moment, i could almost see you standing
over there, pointing to the pine tree, saying
‘i know you from somewhere. a landscape
somewhere’ and at night when it is cold
but i am still too hot to dream, we lie awake
and i read you that long poem about snow
by horace:
            “today, don’t ask

             what tomorrow may be

             whatever time gives you

             put down for profit

             and dont reject love

             now when you’re young”