NOT YET not yet ready to write you the words are not yet themselves but only an impulse the pen hides in my hand and mute there looks tidy it is speaking to itself alone like an old man rehearsing his life in a cold room curves dots slashes all its strokes held inside outside a dizzy wind stumbles from snow to sleet to ice the night sets in cold and grows colder than ever and longer than day lasted what the wind says is simple one long word like a mound of snow only one word all night: you