It has no jazz in it but the ice hands

of a woman I loved.  Outside, no

snow but it was winter.  Inside, with art

I waited for her, staring up at

decoupage and crenellated mixed media—

fabric trapped in paint like

a moth in sap.  I looked up.  The ceiling

receded into soundproofing,

I thought of the word baffle, thinking

I’d tell her.  I felt the cloud of her hands

with her laugh upon my ears,

baffled, numb in an instant but thawing.

Later, during the play, in darkness

she shed her bra, there where she sat

beside me, tucking it away,

black lace like an etched cloud, like a winter

no one could understand.  I

wanted to ask why.  I wanted her

not to say.  We left before the curtain

meant for us to and next door

live jazz throbbed like a creature

but it was cold and the air had claws,

we kept going.  I hummed

later alone, each note fog,