WHITE SILENCE, GREY SKIES

White silence, grey skies and

this exceptional softness with which

the snow settles.  A nostalgic blue coolness

recalling childhood winters whispers its rumor

on the horizon.  Sleeping until three the house

is weirdly cozy in its murkiness, producing a

strange suspense which lacks anticipation.

The pony smells off    the fields are blanketed

by an icy wetness.  My thoughts begin to brood

like characters in a Russian play.  ( In my heart

a little gnome slowly cranks the handle of a tiny

child's music box that plays "Anna's Theme". )

On such a day I have no desires save to smoke cigars,

drink coffee, and stare at the sky.  My skin, my tongue

are as dry as the pages of a very old and rare copy

of "The Idiot".  Snow in lazy forms, supple as ceramic cats,

snuggle nicely on wingspans of evergreen.


Clouds congeal to allow the sun to dismiss its subtle light

upon baise buildings.  Nearby a telephone booth

stands deserted longing for dimes, for vicarious lives.