You wouldn't think so, but it snows in Italy
and here, too, just after the black ice --
splatter, plink, doily-drift, and bury,
boot-tread deep, an immortal skid for the young.
Here inside, next to the wheels only
of an old clockwork, eleven on eleven,
the OXO kettle whines the cat under a bed
and splashes boil into a mug I drool with honey.
Out in the distance, love rumbles into a stranger's
chest like an off-road vehicle
yet even with forced air, these chill rooms
Hover like breath in a widow's heart.