Roman Ex, Roman Eye

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.


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