You speak and speak to me

and I to you,

words that coil, ouroboros,

genetic strand or loop-

de-loo – you speak to me

and I to you

and in the friction of this noise

this marriage of unlikelihood,

a synthesis of constant dialogue

even when no words will do –

I left my room and came to you,

enlivened by a scent from ancient days –

anise, rich as earth, reminiscent

of some holiday, and there you are,

bent over, admiring your baking tray,

the kitchen window full behind you,

sans curtains – snow is falling there –

and you with sugar sifter shaking powdered

sugar here – “I had a craving

for Italian cookies,” you are saying.

“How did you make them?”

and you smile as snow dusts down

upon the earth and speak and speak

to me, and like ouroboros,

I speak to you.