Winter Landscape with Me on It
Sticking out of the ground like one dry twig in a thicket I
do hang on though the hills hurry off and sink
into the North Sea, that cesspool. My insides I
think were pulled out in the last tide.

Still something's churning in there, industrious
as a cement mixer. The smooth white
fixative pours out pyramids, carbuncles, roads, that set
hard on the crumbling hills, a cast

of thought. While human spawn encased in metal slides
awhile over the surface, then sinks beneath. I
want to think something else. I'm dreaming of a white
Christmas, just like the ones I -

it's an upsidedown Resurrection, this snow, angels
in tutus falling from their cloudy graves, spinning
...