(no subject)
the phone folds the hot space in here,
small!
cracks, as fat in a pan
it is a worry.
not yet gone, the geese
weather september by the pond
so far the sward between us.
we defeat, i and the geese
each winter.
and the wolves have howled now
once or twice amid the splinters
of birches.
i do not do as they do.
for i have met my sorry someone
an emblem of my faults;
he is humiliating.
i will not take him southward
nor outside.
were he to die, i
would hardly miss him.
but in this static,
this unelectric ugly air, he heats;
he will do for this winter.