Poem (‘If you passed unharmed through the miraculous season’)

If you passed unharmed through the miraculous season,
What now when the year runs out with chattering of teeth?
The embroidery unfinished, the pile of unmailed letters,
The echo in the empty well, what can they tell you?

The spider in the grate, the empty, indifferent weather
May be a clue. But better not to know.


The Recidivists

My first is to my finger
As my third is to my thumb.

We came in by the fire escape,
But we’ll leave by the last room.

We’ll take the silver and the bedding.
We’re very taking persons.

Be too taken, we’ll take too
The hope from your sleeping face.
...