My hands of old snow
are pulling down drafts
of brick-blooded sloe.

The TV's glass glow
is hard as a haft
in my hands of old snow.

Night thick as a dough,
bleeding moon like a shaft
of brick-blooded sloe.

Slip the man what I owe
in black dollars that laughed
in my hands of old snow.

Face bright from the blow,
a drunkard's witchcraft
of brick-blooded sloe.

This tired old show
again autographed
with hands of old snow,
of brick-blooded sloe.