We were leaving
an afternoon
of coloured glass and temples:
your gloved hand
snug
in my gloved hand.
The sky was later than you’d think.
The way it would have been
when Wallace Stevens wrote his poem.
Giant TVs
had fallen to earth
and neon bubbled hot through pipes.
New Yorkers were hurrying home, dressed
in hats and scarves and cheerful
optimism.
I think we were talking pizza, when
a snow began—
so delicate
it might have been
falling
skyward.