THE SNOW IS IN THE WAY
Is that your car in the garage? And
doesn't it have to be? You can't just
go using anybody's. Those headlamps,
I saw from a distance, looked like something
peering out, from fifty years ago. And now,
now everything's over.
I get so weary of reading old poetry - working
the methods to death, all those old, nervous sorts,
plodding their way through their lines-by-lines.
Wordsworth and Swinburne combined. Heavy
sledding. I'd rather the ice I can just slide along.