That the trees have become wallflowers
against the dim sky, stand in a shirking
beauty, all limbs and chipped bark.
Cruel enough, but snow makes all
white! A blank, no references.
cruel enough, stiff colonial houses,
clouds of incense rise from chimneys,
purge environs, smoke twines into a rope,
an escape to heaven. Cruel enough a publisher
says most poetry books end up as pulp like
the shredded ice now landing everywhere,
but so cruel I have to write this poem about it.
Published in Poetry Salzburg Review ( AT)
