I hesitate past windows,
their luminance wakes up latent memories
of dim-lit rooms and sweet fragrances
dripping off people’s mouths, the decadence of being
logically happy; these silhouettes that I breathe warmly
fade in the relentless cold.
The lack of compassion, a strange comfort
from the World in a black robe,
She is the Widow at a mass funeral;
To die would simply be
to accept
her annual invitation to self-pity