Clean water in the porcelain basin, a croissant,
coffee on the balcony. Beyond this room the world
smelling like snow that is to say like nothing.
Over a newspaper in bed you peel an orange
with a blunt knife and ask another word for singing,
your white shirt in the closet beside my white shirt.
This lightness. The pink salt lake sky.
Somewhere: ice on the mountains. That arctic
calm as Cello Suite No.1 arpeggios in from the street.
Do you still hear it, Alice, the Mediterranean crackle
in sleep? No money for artichoke hearts, the fat
of butter, meat. And yet this square of morning:
almonds in a bowl by the bedside, the clear stone in
your wedding ring. When you would say Bella, no sadness,
the light is steady; it holds each time you leave.