 | Three Poems |  |
63
January
Again I reply to the triple winds
running chromatic fifths of derision
outside my window:
Play louder,
you will not succeed.
I am bound more to my sentences
the more you batter at me
to follow you.
And the wind,
as before, fingers perfectly
its derisive music.
running chromatic fifths of derision
outside my window:
Play louder,
you will not succeed.
I am bound more to my sentences
the more you batter at me
to follow you.
And the wind,
as before, fingers perfectly
its derisive music.
| Three Poems | |