milky air
silent plains
it could be snow
this might be another country
crossing the Yangtze
we are grace in the making
and the train hums
like a man I want to love
bare trees appear
singular in winter bodies
oversized nests
must be minds
I hear wind and morning
locked in a room
count nine plastic bags
under four clouds
mud, cigarettes
cold hands
cities grow rings
nests remain
this country and I live
hardly speaking with each other
and snow has landed