I kiss you
You roll down the window
And still it is snowing
I ask you
What is that building across?
It seems very old
Yes, it was the order of nuns
Each room with its crucifix on the wall
Now it is a Hotel
Filled with small rooms devoted to commerce
I see them coming and going
Here money changes hands
And the snow continues
In the yellow light of the old and the new
The interstices where it all connects
And still, it snows
When we awake
Everything is so quiet
Raven black pupils
How many hands outstretched?
To feel the sting of snow
The brutal brittle air
The wind charging along
Beneath balustrades
Where heavy curtains move mesmeric
In and out and in and out
I watch you breathe like smoke or praying
We are still, we are frozen
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Robert Frede Kenter is a writer and visual artist. Most recently, Guest Editor at Burning House Press, “secrets and lies” issue. His book Audacity of Form (Ice Floe Press, 2019). Published widely incl. Twist in Times, cough, Anti-Heroin Chic, Fascist Panties, Grain, New Quarterly,Lost & Found Times, etc.