Winter Again
The window is opened half an inch
and the air that comes in crimps the nose
like acid-smoke. This is clean but cold
because the time of year is the end
of July and the weather’s behaving itself
like winter. The tops of my fingers are red
and on one the skinn is broken.
Like Strindber midnight-mad on purity,
I wash my hands far too often in icy
water to escapt the old bane
of chilled fingers swellingand blaining.
Despite all this I can do without
spring and summer, their teeny to middle-aged
charm exhausts me and always has.
I’ll stay with autumn and winter and wrap up
phobias, fat red fingers and all