A thousand and ten pages
Of Allen Ginsberg's writings
Bound in heavy solitude, squat beside the bed
The window sheets are white, Leonard Cohen's monotone
Harmonising to a Casio
Sweet Angel Words, unfinished poems and rhyme
Are sown in leaves of magazines
Strewn on pull-out, tear-off sheets
Inviting your subscription, although you have subscribed.
By snow surrounded, cornered on all sides
The taunts of immobility
Wild animals and ice, neighbours hover out of sight
Sensing blood and vulnerability
Resentment of the rentiers
Who integrate the drive.
So leave alone
Don't raise up or speed-dial with the phone
Do not disturb the sacred private life.
I wait for Monday, when the bus will run
The ice must melt, under dawn's red sky,
Trace a map, create a pathway
Into the world, white-collar and crime
While Monday ignores the laws of time
Emboldened by sun in the skyline
Aspires to melt the white crusted coat
That cloaks the silence in a lonely sigh.
