Light From the Lamp Post.

I don't know how to stop it.
Don't know how to stop the snow from falling
in late October, when you and I are outside,
kissing, hands entwined, looking at the lamp post,
thinking of what the world was like before lamp posts,
before buildings, before God.

A dog walks passed us-woof! woof!-a man with a stroller
lumbers by, whistling under his breath, or maybe
saying something about the young and the restless.
I don't know how to stop it.

Don't know how to keep
the cold from entering me, from becoming a part of me,
the darkness snakes around me, up my legs and spine.