Winters are but boundaries of foam. Furies of a creature that has
to let go of what was old and cannot shed.
There is the last fellow I guess I’ll be killing high and low
with no fellow feeling.
For I live in line with razorblades instincts.

The wailing of the traces
is spreading out remembrances for distant magi-to be.
Now everything I once used to live, all
is coming back to me.