maybe it was a welcome. a few days into spring, snow haloed paris, giving everyone a new diadem. how could i not press this into some mythical praise, that comes as easily as love to me? 

there is an indecisiveness about snow, the way it lingers in the air, this way and that, and sometimes even upwards. as if it is lost. as if it is searching for grace. here, try not to think too much, can you see it dancing? 

so i walk home, late at night, in thigh high stockings and a mini skirt, dreaming of plundering this air. dreaming of our time of leisure that bears me upward towards art, that could strip me bodily my own ambitions. there will be no hours there, as if in a cistern, as if in the sea, as if with you.