ACCOUNT OF MY DAYS
Sequence: 7
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