As ice melts into mastika,
a soft torus forms,
billows into clear liquor, turns it to cloud.
We’re already high, up here on the top floor
where windows give out on scalloped roofs
and the rain that was drizzling has thickened
to flakes that drift between tall buildings.
For the moment, the first few days of spring
are spent and all that we remember are
conversations that spiral like weather effects.
We’ve been walking through future anthologies
and now, in this almost empty restaurant,
we’re here, we’re talking, we’re almost home.