for making the piano snow.

Promise me we will never meet. Intentionally or otherwise
along some backlit boulevard, its
gravel bleeding into Sunday.

or in white tiled cafes where the coffee is stronger than any
desire to see
you sitting alongside some potted fig tree, it's
branches brushing the back of your chair.

Whisper your whereabouts to the mourning doves who are as grey as I am blue
rouse them early, before dawn
that they might litter feathers around
as trail markers
allowing me to migrate around this city
without the threat of catching light
resting along the horizon of
your shoulders.