stop here—meet the snow
and the premonition of the old
the young the beautiful and the
secret desires that shape us

be it the people the means
the drugs the drinks the leaves
that blow past your favourite
pair of shoes worn like old souls

through the irony that built
the strange sunday we made
yesterday out of the empty
glasses and bad receipts
that tell the rest of the story
that we confined to the inner
depths of our intertwining