Solomon’s wisdom didn’t keep
him from pining for sleek

horses, so how am I—with no
direct warnings from above—

to keep my mind off you in the bar
mirror fifteen years ago watching

ice pour from the sky, when
we still believed in winter

and bartenders and Peter Buck,
believed no harm could come to us

from mixing Bass and Bushmills
and watching hipsters flaunt

fake fur and silver studs
by the orange heaters

until we were thrown out
into the frozen park

where the glassy trees
reminded us of us,

wrapped brightly
in their misery.