“Let’s dig for snow,”
say you, when we and summer
are young and I almost tell you.
I almost tell you that there is no
snow to find under sun, only the molten
layer of fire and earth and crust,
burnt sharp to the edges. I
almost tell you.
say I, and there is snow
against your lashes and ice
reddening your checks. The warmth of
July winter brushes against my fingers.
It’s enough, I think. Your dreams
have room enough for two.