Register Wednesday | December 19 | 2018

The Most Spontaneous Thing

A poem

Walking toward Bank Street in winter,
cold showing in our breaths. You leapt pressed my back down
against what would have been
a raised flowerbed in summer, your mouth
planting kisses. The whole few seconds,
I was thinking:
what if someone's looking, what if
in my backpack I carried some blown glass ornament
you didn't know about?