Winter.
Bright.
In the late evening, I sat propped,
sad statue,
tilting my head so the refuse of water ran, evaporatingly
in whorls.
Spoke to my self the whole night --
Measured the fall of snow.
Remembered to unarm anger
(I taught him what he knows,
the several-atoms-thin facing of me.)
Inward movement impossible.
We spected, politely, on outsides.
I tried to lower myself out of love with the same ease.
Drank and thought to appeal to him, dear object.
Revised standards:
broke through the old anger like puncturing a skin.
