Ribbon of Winter


She whispers to me
in garbled tongues,
metaphors without sense
of time or context.
She draws fire from

a titanium candle sitting
solitary upon the window sill
and teases her hair.
She smiles, transfigures,
studies the streets

and their measure of austerity.
The late crowds bumble
for shelter, sidestepping epitaphs,
cowering in their exoskeletons,
which amuses the two

of us in the warmth
of our chrysalis. Crystalline
drifts in the pulse of solenoids.
Buildings billowing.
Everything is in accumulation.

Shimmering polygons
commune in the diminishing
space between us.
As they drift in and out
of their harmonies,

she peers through
their consonance,
observing me lovingly,
stroking my shoulder
with one hand, tracing

the meandering ribbon
of Winter with the other.

-r. miller


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