
Reading time 2 minutes
It’s clouding up in the heavens, he said, wrinkling his brow,
It’s clouding up in the heavens, he said, wrinkling his brow,
a woman in a red jacket
picked up a glove from the snow
—smaller than a sparrow on an ice-covered branch—
and carefully hung it on a tree
a few days later
in my mother’s cupboard
I found gloves with woolen suns—
rays climbing up every finger