Flurries She is talking about the weather up there in the Deep North, laughing as she watches neighbours chasing their bins in the icy wind. Casually she tells me she can see snow "flurries.
A shabby, gilded box, a faded curtain anywhere, anywhen ' the story is eternal. It is the old stale tale of January and May that wintry fool who fell in love with spring:
I am sitting in the Chinatown bar, thinking always, only of you, your sad voice on the phone. And without warning I see you walking towards me, in denim skirt and army boots, your black hair bouncing as you stride.