On a Sunday when it is snowing
for the first time this year,
The ground is gleaming;
Forget the red leaves I didn’t rake
That rot beneath the flakes,
For the flakes that swirl, tumb-
ling off the pitch of roof.
Cup of coffee grown cold by my side
is now warming on the wood-burning stove
glowing with coals to stave off the cold
I’m watching through the glass.
I’m reading a book;
it might be a book of love songs;
it might be a book of lustful songs,
either way, my back is warm against my chair,
And I am warm within my chest,
And my lips are warm upon my jaws,
but my voice is cold from my sleep,
And my tongue sticks with
the bitter of the coffee
and decay,
So the words upon the page
stay upon the page
As I watch the world fill up with white:
Blank upon the gray
Blank upon the black
Blank upon the day
Blank upon the tracks
Blank upon the leaves
that I forgot to rake
Blank upon
The cup that shatters on the stove;
Coffee burns to residue and vapor;
The book falls to the floor
As I hobble on sleeping feet to grab a towel.
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