I stepped out in the cold

palate of white on white on white on white had buried the steps you left
only hours ago
to navigate back home

I should have asked you to stay
warm in my bed and at arm’s length

But instead, you are crawling
on 127 at 15 miles per hour

You should have called by now
and my fears are wild with doubt,
painted in plowed steps, cased from Holmes to Akers Hall
while my breath does pirouettes

When you finally return my calls
you are worn and exhausted, but safe and alone in your bed

Now the air is sharp and alive, and burns when it returns to my chest
as thousands of tiny men parade through the sky
like dancers, or ash

As I turn to go home
I watch the snow reclaim every footstep
bathed in the warm glow of half-choked street lamps
like it never cared that we were here