this park
treacherous in winter
steep and slippery-sharp
and always
the possibility of getting trapped
at the bottom of the hill
no footholds
so we stay in the car
and he rubs my face raw
with his chin hair
while I contemplate the symmetry of
park and park
and the cold seeps
up my sleeves and
fastens itself around my neck
like a steel collar
and I'm trying to think
why go anywhere if you're just going
to stay in the car?
and the cold insulates
each rib each finger
each kiss feels
less and less like a kiss
in this night of dead car batteries
and no heat through the vent
he steps out
brandishing jumper cables
and the whoosh of the closing door
sends snowglobe flakes
flying in the space
where he was
and isn’t now

(November 3-4, 2002)