In the winter,
When everything is dead
And the whole world
Holds its
Breath;

In the winter,
When the women in the supermarkets of the world
Strap their sleeping children across their backs
And hunch their way toward
The gleaming
Check-
Out,
And everything sucks slowly
Into itself;

In the winter,
When everything is dead
And I am also dead,
I go running through the dead
Fields, the thick ochre
Of the dead
Stalks pushing through the cracked
Tablet of mud, and cold rain
And I am yet
Living;

In the winter,
When the world holds its breath
And I am out of breath
And I go days without talking
To anyone,
And sleep most of the grey
Days into the afternoon
When the heater wakes
Me with its dry
Nausea;

In the winter,
When everything is dead
And I am also dead,
And the world all sucked into itself,
And cold,
And holding its breath,
And waiting
For spring-

I am yet living.

—————-
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