Ottawa, Late Winter

Beside me, the City pulls her covers up;
pulls a dry white quilt
over chin and eyes and nose
and night-wet auburn hair.

She has slept here for months,
and I do not suppose
that she wanted to wake,
though the sun has been breaking
and Spring has been standing
and rapping at her door.

So she pulls the covers up on us,
and squeezes swollen eyelids shut;
thinks again on a Winter dream,
under blankets of snow and lover’s musk.