motes of snow float listlessly by the window rising and falling with meandering currents of air sunlight, filtered pale through grey cloud another moment passing a dull refrain... the chill clawing at walls and doors incessantly as incomprehensible being ... another long grey day, arctic wind, bodies bundled, and the mind seeking the warmth of certainty... not found today ... today, I wish I was a Marxist with something worldly to believe in something that gives utter meaning something that displaces, with in me, the grey despair, the icy thoughts of winter not some frigid airy faith but the lodged certainty of mind, man, and history...
but those statues are long gone those poets of the proletariat have been single mindedly disgraced the windows of future hope have been iced over and our little fire burns the furniture of our lives like Zhivago's
and the mice are watching us from the cupboards and the rats fall between the walls scratching at lathe and plaster and in the night they scare us scuttling over our sleeping bodies
they’re everywhere like spies saying nothing watching, waiting for the cold to take us unfeeling, frozen on the recliner covered with a feeble quilt they’ll dance then before our milky white eyes open, staring out past the frosty sill And the ice glaze over the pane … when spring comes I will cry with the ice... melting down the window when worldly ideology fails I will read banned books on the soul spin in the slushy square a sloppy dance of liberty
when spring comes I will sing with the crows over dead ideology that couldn’t save a soul but could hope to like all the others
when spring comes I will look no further than naked trees promising bud