The avenues are splattered with the offerings of trees, where after a season of sweats, cold air is sluicing through. I wait at a ruby red traffic light, listening to the hum of cars and voices, and think of all the crossings I (will) undertake: trains to work and assignations, a bier to burning, rooms in shade to couple with lovers, naves to walk on bruised knees, ruins to be in a state of longing, and snows to obscure Adrienne's incarnadine again.