A Bowl of Hot Noodles

In chilly wind, a bowl of hot noodles.

With both hands, you edge it towards me,

your words adrift in steam.

My glasses fog. Between the tips of my chopsticks,

the noodles’ fragrant, trembling dance.

I slide them in. My chest kindles

as if firelit. Outside, night drizzles on,

one droplet and another

bearing light.