The only things
between me and death are these words, as long as I
carry them around and write them down, you won’t die,
and as long as I write and write, the words will still
fall over us like a snow shower in May, the day we sat
in the car at Schiller Park, and watched the wind blow
snowflakes like dandelion fluff onto new green grass,
tiny ice fell on us, a faint crinkle, melting on the glass.