Not Eurydice    

Walking back in the storm not
holding your hand
after the comedy that didn't work
you hunched me shivering
streetlights cast shadows of
falling snow on fallen snow
like ashes blowing
low over the ground, brackets
of snow in whip-curve
branches of horse chestnuts
which come spring will
hold up wicks of flowers
in backstreets of this city
we have loved a long time in.