Damon Hubbs

Montpelier Song

I used to go to The Black Door
every Friday to see Nicole. 
She was tall 
and slightly nordic 
or nordic once removed, 
a nose like a golden shovel 
of all the best lines, 
eyes in a dream state
cor cordium,  
fearful symmetry. 
One night when the streets were dead 
and the moon like a lonely cab
I got drunk 
and asked her to go to Iceland 
and she said 
stop being cryptic —forget 
Iceland. 
I’m yours, presently. 
The music is good 
and the snow 
undressing 
with just the right amount 
of emotional 
catastrophe.