The room is a womb of heat—breath without questions,milk-set, conscience-clean,cupping us in its palmas if the fall were forgivenbefore the slip of the hand.Beyond the balcony’s blink of glasswinter keeps its stern religion:frost sewing scriptureon iron rails,ice glazing the square to relic,the day held fast,a saint pinned in cold.There—a playpark of metal ribswhere bodies lifttheir…