A navy-blue dawn in a frosted pane
recalls yellow streetlamps in the snow-piled lane,
icy pathways, crossroads, drifts on either hand,
a jostling cloakroom in Europe's estern end.
"Hannibal..." drones on there, a worn-out motor,
parallel bars in the gym reek with armpit odor;
as for that scary blackboard you failed to see through,
it has stayed just as black. And its reverse side, too.
Silvery hoarfrost has transformed the rattling bell
into crystal. As regards that parallel-
line stuff, it's turned out true and bone-clad, indeed.
Don't want to get up now. And never did.

1975

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