Another Wednesday, another chill
deep enough the oven’s on and open.
It’s two days till we
touch, bump our
the boxlike studio,
warmed by gas blue-flamed
to roast some orange rootstuff.
The sweetness and the stuffiness,
my slippers on your feet, blankets
draped, the room preheated by
my “Brooklyn radiator,” and you,
with your visible delight
in toastiness and life—
I tug my blanket. Behind the wall
an alley’s worth of snow comes down.