We were leaving

an afternoon

of coloured glass and temples:

your gloved hand

snug

in my gloved hand.

The sky was later than you’d think.

The way it would have been

when Wallace Stevens wrote his poem.

Giant TVs

had fallen to earth

and neon bubbled hot through pipes.

New Yorkers were hurrying home, dressed

in hats and scarves and cheerful

optimism.

I think we were talking pizza, when

a snow began—

so delicate

it might have been

falling

skyward.

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