Slim it bent through my body and broke it through to straits and straights; so I broke in through the speaker’s words clinging to my shirts, voiding in my skirts; I went through works of bell and spoon, tinkling glass and spins, working through my skin that I held so tight from the snows of Febbraio Park. Works for me: at the snows that heaved blind up in my face: at a spindle of trees that bore thin arm o’er thin branch, dim for sympathy but clear to the facts: a solitary bench—across the yard the chess players, and I craned my head but sloped it so low into my lap and cried my eyes out, and cried my eyes out: the harrows I spent, this November, the exit spun and spurred the larks’ exit, skies turned, I, kneedeep in snows and stumbling: the hit, the man warmer wrapped in cloths I twisted round my ankles burn and the crosses sinking their ways, cracks along thick flat ribbons of ice: the moon in still glass waters shaking was my hands, I grieved for home: rather sooner, rather later, the clock that hung above the courts, it bore my self, I was dreaming seldom sleeping, seldom seeing it was clear and everyday: the chapel in the center of park was instead a sure glacier through the gloom.
-2000
