In Manhattan, yesterday afternoon when the hail was so small it click-click-clicked and bounced and glittered against my fur-hooded jacket, I couldn’t help but think of diamonds, being showered in diamonds.  In Brooklyn, this morning, the streets are made of slush and though the snowfall has stopped, white chunks of it are hurled from the elevated tracks every time the train passes – confetti or feathers.  Though technically I’ve lived here for over a year now, I’ve missed every major snow storm until last night.  During dinner in an east village apartment with big picture windows, lightening turned the white sky yellow.  Sky swirling popcorn.  Sky so full and blowing it looked fake, like we’d been shaken.  By midnight, only taxis creeped down Houston and everyone else slid, laughed, held each other’s hands and grew sugary, their shoulders and knit hats getting drifted.  We couldn’t tell where the street began.  “Isn’t it beautiful?” Charlotte kept saying with her French inflection.  Nicole got me right in the face with a packed ball of it and I threw one back and watched it shatter against her jacket.  All of this white.  A run on old metaphors.  Snow like love or death – a battered category – nothing new to say about it.  And a river of melt outside my window.  And still more.  All of this.  White cake, white trees, white dresses, strips of white rhinestones and soup bones in poems.

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