Winter Issue of My Hopes

Winter's creeping down the bare hills,

But this time it feels too late,

Yet the dew hangs on the eves

To split a red sun

Or make a lonely moon lonelier

Or it just falls out of sight

Into endless pores. But the glassy

Globule is chaste and quietly

Intense like this fourth winter issue

Of my hopes to prosper or despair;

Of course your likes and dislikes

After all count in the long run.

You may see how it all hangs together

And reads beside the matters

Chalked and tarred on everyday walls.

All contributors to this issue are men,

While women thinking

And doing something else

Are, nevertheless, welcome!