I walked in my little home town, after Christmas
dwindling streets, people
and houses. A friend shakes hand.
I look the other way forgetting to wish, wanting
to love and say many ecumenical things. But I have just come back from the bar, after downing two and a half gins and burying my dreams into the recesses of winter nights of this town, where I was and am born. My face is reddish, body warm, I take leave of my friend and wish that the trees and the whispering pines will walk across my body, especially in death.
