Michelle Lee Floater 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.

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