Blizzard in New York

Each flurry marks another evaporated year, another
three inches on my darling stalks. The morning after the blizzard

we loaf in the city’s elegant hush, we sip brandy
at mid-day. I keep hearing Grandma say, Snow, that white

anesthesia. I keep watching the ghost trees hover
over their sucked-out leaves. And then, acute & sudden grasp of the looming—

I will make a great show of myself, and disappear.