Sinatra singing ďIím a fool to
Iím glad summerís done, wrung
Fog last night was a bandage to
parting strata of purpleblue fog
the wool of this Northern land
Life was no nest of singing birds
when we came
The TV came up in a liquor carton
wrapped in old jeans.
Darling, I had arrived
like the nail driven in the wall
carrying the snow scenes, etoiles,
rooves in snow, all the rusty bloodway in.