its snowing on my last night in new york.
the snow has massed quietly while i slept.
when i say 'snow', you know that i mean 'sad',
when i say 'me', you know that i mean 'us'.
in the twilight slick hours of before-morning,
i hold on to what I can own;
snow has grown on the slim windowsill ledge like pulled cottonwhite skeins--
inhospitable shelf,
powder-lacquer,
my lamp must glow from the inside room,
watched from the threads of the outside storm.
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