among the torn silks of phrase

traveling through streets full of whimsy; an old man standing alone at the health food store, his face folded in concentration while he trembles sesame butter into the counter-top container (carefully inspecting each hand for delicate stains, these opulent betrayals). in midafternoon sunlight, the wooden floors are burnished with wet footsteps & the pattern of motion (here, progress is slow). and on slushy subway platforms, commuters weighed down with lunchboxes & shopping bags wait to go home. ("viens ici." she whispers this across the open space of the train. she smiles when his fingers touch the sleeve of her coat.) a little girl is led down king street, a hat pulled right over her eyes.

in the kitchen everything glows with christmas; chocolate-covered figs, passionfruit curd, molasses sugarcookies, candied peel for panettonne, chopped ginger-root & toasted pine-nuts.

there are things i will always want to give you; the ruined foundations of falling-down farms, a blue antiquarian forest, eggnog steeped in earl-grey, knitted socks & words implacable as desire.