With the first snowfall of the year
that wouldn’t stick, the frost congealed
on the ground like damp white hair,
or spit.

We raced inside, played an unpracticed
version of soccer, kicked around bright
sneakers with bare feet. We rolled the shoes
over like small, still bodies.

My quarrel was warm and rehearsed,
and I worried the quivering and
gentleness would flee, impossibly,
like an ocean that forgot the smell of salt.

Unspecial, unspoiled, loved, unturned,
candy-colored pastel sweethearts,
shedding our hand-carved words,
we moved from the chairs to our knees.