Talk of SnowTalk of SnowIt's cold againand there is talk of snowThe neighbor, come for her packagesstands chatting in the windmore out of obligation than interestI am only half out the doorwishing she would go awayso I can close the door to the coldIt seeps in through my skin as ifI am no more than a paper shella wasps' nest or a folded boatIt all seems so overwhelmingtodayThere is little moneyand less foodand it's so damned hard to stay warmI want for a place to resta place to settle for a moment and escapeto dream a little and forgetthis bitter, haunting cold
Monday MorningMonday MorningNo temple but this housefilled with the clutterof two tired parents and one happy childNo scripture but these thoughtsjumbled and clumsyon an otherwise empty Monday morningNo prayer but this movementdrawing my body gentlyfrom the discomfort of its dormancyNo sound but this breathinglying near the fireresting in the emptiness I createdNo bell but this pot lidringing as I lift itto scoop cold oats into my bowl
Emily ClaireEmily ClaireI saw you in the photograph of a friendand fell in loveYou are smoking cigaretteswrists wrapped in bangles, neck drapedin delicate loops of metal and leatherIt is clear from the angle of your eyebrow and the delicate tilt of your headyou do not carewhat anyone thinksIt is a large part of your charmMy guess is you go to parties in large housesowned by the parents of friendsand small rented apartmentsfilled with smoke and lisping intellectualswobbling from the wineYou sit, ribbons in your hairand smoke and drinkthinking it is betterthan being alone