I am kissing January now—
juniper, hot chocolate on my scarf
somewhere in City Park. I used to move
through halls and doors freely, to know the way
the leaves crushed under her. A couple months
before she left, I rattled the bird call
on top of the mountain where all paths lead.
Backward, the book became a poem, winter
held summer's place. The crisp air of solstice
rang saturnine, a churning fire popped
into the cold. Her tongue was there. I sat
somewhere. I forget just what I had thought
about her eyes' effulgent love, but now
the taste of gin and tonic I recall.
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