The world is shutting in on her, snow keeps
falling, thermometers plummeting.
She feels iconized.  Something in the acres of days,

their random chores, in herself something
minimized.  The need for signatures
and automobile inspections, a gathering

of documents, photographs of the dead, their proofs
of birth and citizenship, of proficiency.
The crinkled flesh at every bend (elbow, wrist,

knee, waist).  To grow old in a place where all
that matters are notarized signatures—she wonders,
Is this a sign?  Have I diminished myself beyond

recall?  Only small pleasures offer any hint
of solidity—after a hot shower to sit on the couch
beside her man, in her green flannel

nightgown, watch the Chinese film
about the healing powers of the public bath.
                                                               2/28/2008