First snow. Mother’s
arms. How could
your name
be another’s?

Cling like static or
the invention of time.
Cling like saran
gas or the urgency
of clocks.

This cold we have
in common makes me
hold you-- I adopt your
hands.

Sloppy, how we
make truth: I know
no one really looks like you.

Snow, like lust, cooks
the edges of things,
recreates the whole. You
took your edges off,
stood naked, stretched
your legs out like ideas
of deserts. Urgent as the turn
of the millenium.

How can want be so
expressable, so sober, so
colloquial? Snow clings
to your hair. I cling to
my inventions.