If you ask me about late day shadows
I can give you an impression—
They are like the face within a face
As with so many things
The fierce beauties…
**
Poets have much to say
About what we never become
Ruin and river—
The threads in life’s coat
**
Speak to the weather
Its the oldest artwork of all
On the street in winter
You can see people talking to themselves
**
I think of Auden’s line: “All we are not stares back at what we are.”
Where is home from here?
**
With people
Come the hours
And the language of hours
But I prefer the first winter
When shelter was all
**
Thinking of Auden in Winter Rain…
Funny man
Raise your little fist—
Time says nothing
Water on your wrist
Planet of the Blind 