It is snowing.
A downy grey sky of feather fall.
Heavy in my viscera, memory:
She, rowing opposite me, across
the London skyline.
Upon soft water, swans.
How happy, how loved. How
could it be
that I erased the slim lines of hope from the page?
Choosing instead
the blankness.
The blankness.
The snow erases the worn lines of the world.
