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.
Kristi Maxwell Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
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