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Slumped against the window may I, oh please, watch snow,
and question nothing, but feel a woolen and a vapid,
languid bliss?

I have written love letters but have never sent a-one.

And as it falls, slow as velvet moth, and where
it lies, at rest, as my body will lie, heavy and light
in its stasis,

may I turn crackling as prodded the log in the fire,
may I spill easy as the liquor gone to vinegar on
the shelf, for me, will you do this, do this?

Stir clockwise my aging spirits, breathe me to
flush with the bellows,

lay a cheek to my womb, as well you know

a woman will grow threadbare, beg darning,
cure ills, set fractures, accept a hand of warmth,
acquiesce a weary truth