When face-to-face
exchanges crumble
like flakes falling
from a croissant

and she doesn’t want
to be seen,

a corner booth
in a dark tavern
awaits her hot,
nonmigratory breath.

No one would know.
She could order one
(or ten)
and never tell a soul.

A line in a song
becomes the album title.
Or, the other way around.
Why not

begin with secret shots
and go
from there
into the sub-zero night?

A question mark will not move
this time of year.

A mug of strong coffee
and the memory of forgetting
whole days
pile up on the table

to be used
here or wherever
winter expands
without limits.

A mourning cloak’s petticoat
will flutter again.

When a kaleidoscope overtakes her
mind in February again,
she will focus on
the exquisite eyespots.