North

milky air

silent plains

 

it could be snow

this might be another country

 

 

crossing the Yangtze

we are grace in the making

 

and the train hums

like a man I want to love

 

 

bare trees appear

singular in winter bodies

 

oversized nests

must be minds

 

I hear wind and morning

locked in a room

 

count nine plastic bags

under four clouds

 

mud, cigarettes

cold hands

 

 

cities grow rings

nests remain

 

this country and I live

hardly speaking with each other

 

and snow is landing