Inside the dome I sit, my hand hovering

     inches above a small white dog. Two ice skaters

glide behind me, link arms,

     and smile glibly, ignoring the curved sky

distorting their reflections above them.

     By my furrowed plaster eyebrows,

I can tell I’m thinking about

     something small and dark:

the coffee caught in perpetual spill

     darkening the snow at my feet

or black holes—as the plastic one

     hung above my head—how they seem

to have a shadow but really

     it’s just gravity pulling light inwards

and holding it still forever.

     Hovering hugely above that self, I check

my phone screen. Someone has fwd’d me

     an email with no subject line of a cat

playing the piano. No—a child. Who can tell

     in this dark blur? Last night

I was touched for the first time

     in months and when his cold

fingers reached my pant line,

     I froze stiff, unsure of where I was.