If this ground could open up a hollow
I'd swallow my pride and get onside
the others are sure to follow.

We cast shadows and fail to reel them in.

And it's snowing on the underground
falling gently
bound to me and silently I watch or do these eyes of mine deceive?

It's Monday?
I do believe it so to be,
the weekend fell away and
yet we
go on as if we were this turning wheel,
is each revolution really real or
just more snow?

It's Monday,
I believe it so to be
but
still snowing.

I must be getting very old
skin so thick
can't feel the cold
I must be getting very old
repeating things I've read
or wrote?

I note
still snowing though,