Frozen In

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                  Venice, December

    Ours are the only mouths
    to taste with this smothering slow
    touch, and the only steps
    to sink like bellsounds and cave
    deep into the marble snow.
    Women who go to the window
    to push their arms out to the snow
    and then bring the shutters back in
    follow us as we fall
    past their eyes where the black night lives.
    We are snowflakes at last, as the thick
    never locked, never closed doors
    follow us through squares of light
    their windows have left on the snow.
    Once again, warmth that falls,
    again, though our tracks fill and slow.

© Annie Finch