It’s the murderer who got away with it, sitting
on a park bench, thinking about snow
and how it’s over. Little flower-faces peeking
out of dirt to shriek Hello!
While mothers wheel babies by, absurdly
bright. Businessmen in amber. And the light
on steeples served up in cones of white. But —
something here is also not quite right. Old
lady in a little girl’s bonnet. Ugly dog with
a child’s smile. Always, it seems, in
spring you’ll find someone with regrets
she’s allowed herself to forget:
Eye at the keyhole. Milk in the saucepan, and
that strange kiss that went on and on and on.