The snowflakes brush a leg and a tree
the unconventional pair of cylinders
outsourcing the institution of a feeling.
There is a whiff somewhere before the sound
of your walk on the thickness of snow
there is a hush besides a bookshelf glows after
I readjust my glasses.
My feet stomped frantically on the porch when I came
to greet you in your new box. You’re a cat, this isn’t right.
But you scream harmony when the sky clears and your purrs
unlimited like a cloudless horizon of berries in the country.
The aftermath is that snowflakes pass by at large
in the city and at the vet they cease to be.
They melt my heart, they frost your eyes.
My tears salty and lost with my fingers used
like windshield wipers at night. Your leg subsidized all my feelings:
When you missed the extra step I cried
when I held it light before you slept, I cried.