Seasoned

There are certain cities frame-laid as winter—or me-winters I build

with this numb thought: your arms as documents tight at your chest.

This time of separate pockets. Our distance is more than glove-dense

meaning my hand—further than fabric from you.

Tonight fault all air conditioners that trek me back to Prague

and fog that obscures the castle—which backdrop I drop back to

because I remember best your nose in bridge light and snow

like a Xerox of snow—and a copy for each of us to mark up.

Here, a negative of our patented cold: a zipper with broken teeth.