Imaginary Waltz with a Woman Wearing a Dress of Virga
Her silhouette is caught between windows and hanging
cigarette smoke thin as muslin—elongated in streaks
of vodka tonic, moving like a Midwestern storm. I want nor’easters,
Tennessee gales, sneaking wind with its creeping
cool – the smell of thunder, cold copper with a hint
of tin, ground wet before it even starts to rain.