A layer of snow makes me forget
Spring is just around the corner just don’t
Think of me walking out into the cold

The muse at daybreak stuttering, informs my bed,
pines in the scented winter air for poems,
and mumbles about the government and whether I should vote:

French poets are the greatest of all.
They arrive with different smiles. 
They are used to the sun and to coffee. 

I.  In the sixth grade 
          Eisenhower to go down to South America 
          And Mrs. Goldman to write on the board, 

Another ribald tale of the good times at Madame Lipsky’s. 
Giorgio Finogle bad come in with an imitation of the latest Russian poet, 
The one who wrote the great “Complaint About the Peanut  Farm” which I read to you last year at Mrs. Riley’s, 

I would like a word with you 
now that the night is through 
                                  with you 

g'up t'it

             lengths

    passle a

Blue poles (well ?) on the beach
in a snowless winter and

I’m too cold to ask you 

As I walk down NYC I wonder into the ground
Glee a short road across my face
To a sparrow observing from the cool agenda

The energy chest
One keeps dipping in

With the hand of one’s head