We talk through a scrim
beside the motor swarm,
our hands stupid fish
They dart into coats
The loss of our interpreter is great
The snow-blind attachés
try to clear the air with suitcases
We remember Yalta
Microfilm:
The newsreels of your mouth
Its sixty-point headlines
It holds the comma-gun
It punctures my stomach
A runner careens through
the crosswalk, panting
He carries a telegram
decoded, cross-referenced
We walk some in silence
You kick at snow, boots
unlaced, withholding