Michelle Lee

I sit cross-eyed, a blurred blink across past-due
statements and postcards, gaping deep into lamp
light. Somewhere between I slip into a floater,
a charcoal spot of haze my optometrist said
was normal, but little does he see the city,
the curvature of cafés and shoulders against
snow, the spider-veins of cold cracking the surface
of cheeks kissed once, twice, three times,
like in Amsterdam years ago when I wasn't
here, one woman, one bed, one bowl, years
ago when you called me a pistil because I was
in a state of flourishing. "Vigorous," you said
once and took a tulip in your teeth. "Like this."
You walked backward, ahead and fast, bent
and laughing, suddenly gone around a corner
I didn't see coming, into snow. I still search
for signs of you in the fog, squint so long ice forms.