Another Wednesday, another chill

deep enough the oven’s on and open.

It’s two days till we 

touch, bump our

butts maneuvering

the boxlike studio, 

warmed by gas blue-flamed

to roast some orange rootstuff.

The sweetness and the stuffiness,

my slippers on your feet, blankets

draped, the room preheated by

my “Brooklyn radiator,” and you,

with your visible delight

in toastiness and life—

I tug my blanket. Behind the wall

an alley’s worth of snow comes down.