He thought I stole the winter truth from his hands,
But the silence had been with me all morning,
it had dodged traffic to keep up.
The old man on the bench with his winter coat pulled up to his chin
and his black gloves balancing his last cigarette
sitting on the bench among the statues
startled by my long silent steps.
When the scale changes
I find needs forgotten
the ice reminds me of tongues
their gentle tracing,
of getting lost in all manners.
And when the silence is broken,
it comes in a rush of heat and ideas;