Snow

Shh, don’t think in words.
Sense of wonder, Marion.
Snow.

Snow flying down long
stairs in the metro, and now
fleeting in cast light
across black counters
so near the window
that outside
enters.

Glass
no more exists than the idea of glass,
as in between in and out,
out,
out where cold is.

Out, where ice so soft
You smile to feel it land on your lips
(red, swollen, cherub rose-hips)
falls in wind, in wind, in wind,
in sound and street

until

idea of panes, invisible,
impenetrable,
unreal,
intervenes.
Snow still falls,
but silent,
immersed in black counter reflected
to the final strains of
California Soul,

so near the window
that outside
enters.