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Walking through the sifting Slavic snow,
I didn’t expect to meet you.
Scarred, smoking, ambivalent.
Where are you from? (In English?)
Her face, blurred in the obscurity of memory and scar tissue—
fishing in her pockets for a light.
Do you have change for a ten? I ask
noticing how the snow melted on her chapped, impermanent skin.
A generous gesture. One. Two. Three.
No, no. Smoke.
I think I’ll have one more, thanks.
Only at this moment, Here.
I laughed at myself and her—us?
thrown together by a torn dollar bill.
Past the phone booth, past the post office,
weaving through the well suited traffic,
no longer there.