DEAR GEIST,
Searched for you in winter windows—frost
& fire.
Actual weather: light snow, thirty degrees.
View: crookedly parked cars.
This life in which nothing is premeditated.
Can you feel it?
Like most futures, it sounds surer in
German.
Only short vistas, no sense of later,
hair in ashes on your bare shoulders,
did you then despair
—cockeyed in your mirror, haint
glass I
won’t let you go "let me go"
I won’t let
me go
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