Poem for October

I am thinking about
winter with you:

film faded in the sun,
photographing grain
in the palm of a sweatshirt sleeve,

fog’s descent, through the city's parts we have seen together, already, in a different light

(like a picture I hadn't seen before that you showed me once, of a scene already familiar to Delhi and me, which is partly what I liked about it)

and the quiet city fits in your palm on a morning when fog has made it small and you even smaller inside it

and shorter days and longer nights, while we stay awake for the same amount of time, and there is something more intimate about darkness, anyway

(like the guessable, unreadable secrecy of photographs with not enough light)

everything I have just described is exactly like every other winter I've ever known except for you which is what makes it entirely different

(April film)