as we neared the airport, the snow had settled on rooftops like paper ready to be folded. frost blew against our knees, we bent over and discovered a glove in six pieces, a bee in each humming fingertip. what is this, we wondered, a siphonophore? we decided it was not a siphonophore, which writhes like a pressed sparrow in the stomach. we made a circle around the thing and asked, is it a hlaup? no, we agreed. a hlaup breaks from the lips and flees south with the mute. clearly this was not headed south, so we steamed it with our breath and found that it sparkled. what is this, we asked, the reverence? no, the reverence has wings but chooses to drown. we shook our heads, this is not the reverence.

we make snow angels and lay together in mine as the thing sweeps beneath the ice. your cold fingers thaw on my hips. i make a loris in the clouds but you can only make out the slash of departing planes. i wonder if we'll meet again.