You’re a raven, my friend said, and disappeared

into the library. I walked a while, toward the park,


and realized it made sense—my shoes were

uncomfortable, I could not help my elbows


lifting in the wind. Terrible at parties, and also

everywhere, my eyes lit on silver jewelry,


my throat a broken loom. That afternoon,

the sun was made of granite, sliding heavy


off the snowbanks piled high. I stopped to say

hello to a man I hardly knew. He said, Isn’t this


awful? I didn’t know what this was, but privately

agreed, and then I said, The weather? As if it were


impossible to speak of anything else.