Sunday, March 7

still life:

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.