It’s snowing, and not that inglorious
Small stuff from earlier
This morning, I’m talking large, meandering
Pieces that hunt the pigeons
From sill to sill. The radiators spit
And hiss, all my lights
On, though it’s noon and I know
That’s a waste. There are men
In the street dismantling
Something technical, wailing incomprehensibly. I was
Drinking some tea, my eyes
On the Psychic sign across the street
When I had to take a piss, which is
When I heard you showering
Through the airshaft. I didn’t feel comfortable
Yelling about snow, but I wanted to
Tell you anyways. Plastic bags
Flutter like wings in the branches, winter
Is upon us, I have no lover
Which seems to make the movies
Lonelier, though I can’t stay
Away from them.
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