I am engulfed. I succumb.

I have your head to think
about, your hairy legs—when
I open those

Your job, too. It opens
at your belly, oxford shirt;
your skin

The snow goes off nothing even
walking the white line
home, drunk or enormous,

the railway station we make out of
the projects, and dogs between
the trees. Going with you in-
to the kitchen the cats turn

white as remainders
and lick the pits of snow off