eleven in the morning on a saturday
the sun is a lens flare on torpid eyes
long used to the dark of glasses, and winter
it's spring, when cleansing sweat waits behind skin
like worms in soil before the rain

clammy palms sliding together
we squint lazily at the sun, tricked
into shorts and flimsy white peasant shirts
walking briskly
our breath freezing in the shape of
my hand in your pocket

it won't always be like this
next time, i'll watch the weather channel
or you'll see long sleeves and scarves out the window
we might find a coat that can make up its mind
between my shoulders and your waist
and eat a sensible breakfast

but for now, we'll shiver together
laughing and running backwards for warmth
eating ice cream in april