Brooke Stanish

42 Poetry

Eve of the City, of the winter crisis of sterile trees & deceitful snow, crying pools into gloved hands, pure white palms – she had her mittens pressed this morning – hoping to entomb a snowflake in the sanctuary of her fingers, but nothing, only guilty tears from the city of exhaust.

Eve of the city, of the head falling back, of the hat hanging on & the tongue outstretched; A flake slipped from the sky, made a promise it could not keep & still: Eve tasted snow.