We were leaving
of coloured glass and temples:
your gloved hand
in my gloved hand.
The sky was later than you’d think.
The way it would have been
when Wallace Stevens wrote his poem.
had fallen to earth
and neon bubbled hot through pipes.
New Yorkers were hurrying home, dressed
in hats and scarves and cheerful
I think we were talking pizza, when
a snow began—
it might have been