Sinatra singing “I’m a fool to want you.”

 

I’m glad summer’s done, wrung

Fog last night was a bandage to old wounds

 

walking, walking

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.

 

 

 
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