From the issue:
It was the morning after a snowstorm, when hours
are quieted by atmospheric baby-breaths,
a sublime nearness best with coffee—the sugaring season.
I pressed my hand into my coat pocket,
backpack light with everything
I had given up on,
and watched the snow descend, slowly and
without much fanfare,
on the dove gray dome of the cathedral.
Marshall Avenue is a crawl of headlights
and dark sedan curves, the windshield wipers
working through the white like
the dogged Minnesotans within, hardy souls
trying to reconcile all this cold
with all this beauty. A lamp-post bulb goes out,
but it’s daytime, I guess it doesn’t really matter.
I look both ways,
and cross the street, catching flakes on my face,
on my shoulders, on my bones. I’m trying hard
to keep moving forward, I really am.
There is a city in my head and I think it looks
just like this. Blinking the snow off my eyelashes,
I briefly look up: a plane heads east.
I continue on.