I button up my dark coat after the slides and dare not look your way. I'm furious with myself. Each naive stratagem unravels. Your untouchable indifference severs each gossamer thread. I'm in my heavy black tent. Shrapnel falling like snowflakes into the pit of my stomach.

And this too shall pass.
And this too shall pass.

O! The shape of my mouth and the first letter of the pub where I see you. I'm in my white wool dress, trembling. You're in a black sweater, sitting with someone so lovely and autumnal, apple cheeks, chestnut hair, milk maid.

Funny. I can picture her but I can't see you.
Your blazing intensity melts into a muddy puddle of blue eyes and black hair.

Today, after four months of snow, I saw my old green mitten on a patch of yellow grass. It looked up at me like a tired hand, waving.

And I expect nothing. And I expect everything.

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