I have made notice of these
things: the wind that hisses the
rain back, the missed mark on the
side of each man, the herald at the
gate. There is no avoiding, none.
The waiter at table is spinning.
He holds glasses and a cloth.
Outside the window, the
promenade leads in
from a garden.
If this were another time of year,
I'd expect flowers and something
quite pleasant. As it is, all I get are
snows, and all they give is ice.