#decembering

This city disintegrates into fat flakes and spills a billowing silence over crooked branches of birch, bowtied bags, an ambulance. The grid exhales. Times Square in dress rehearsal practices its celebration for a new decade knee deep in confetti. The countdown could be for a departed era, the way snow trembles around brass lamps, wind unbraiding a woman’s hair. The city is a forest, a village, an empty cathedral. It is almost impossible to believe in the yellow- lit tunnels of trumpets beneath my feet, a damp and relentless scurrying. New York is layered with dens. Roofs keep hidden the secret of bats, their dark bickering elbows, and below the sink, mice take precise bites of white bread. In my own nest I spread a buttery light and drink red wine assiduously. I desire velvet and lace, oysters in June but pearls in December, silk, warm milk, the low notes of a bassoon through the window before my thick, ursine sleep. I will wake only in time for flakes to become white butterflies feasting on the first fleecy buds while I fix my fur, hungry once more to see the city reflected in your eyes, those dark, glimmering berries.