Winter had already come.
I was reading Robert Lowell,
whose ill-spirit sobbed in each blood cell.
Nothing so fiercely felt, on my part.
Each morning I read the American news
and chose to take the bus to class so I could see the city.
Flocks of schoolchildren in white coats
took the place of pigeons, who preferred New York.
Instead of the sun I imagined a fragile, dusty lamp in the sky—
gently, the light offered me one street at a time.
One evening you dropped the keys
from the terrace and left me
to fiddle with the front door lock,
so I could not say I entered by accident.
Fresh pasta from the corner Italians, a surplus
of hot water. We had to eat, to wash. In this way
we reasoned away our pleasure. You sang
like a gypsy at camp. Wind spirited your voice
away before it was an echo
or echoed, but your body remained with me,
original, yellowed by nature. We felt safe at night—
sounds of human traffic, perhaps the dog-walkers
free of their dogs. The air moved through
the open window, as if it were fresh.
Elsewhere, winter had already come.
Soon enough, spring would arrive—first
in one city, then in another.