forecast calls for mittens

riding my bike under glowering skies

two states away they’re predicting five inches

of snow and it’s not even

November yet

she complains about cold and

I say I’m sorry for laughing, but then

that’s just the effect she tends to

have on me

warm me up with a single look

a line in a text message–this is modernity, after all,

romance in the age of global warming

and distance surmounted by frozen trails from jets

satellites circulating

to snap pictures of clouds

smoky cities

and her

with me on a park bench–zoom in

close enough to see

the grin I’m wearing from teeth to feverish fingertips

pulse beating at the base of her neck

this close

wind can’t find its way between us

even as winter hurries to arrive

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