Snow embraces
Springfield's earth to its death.
Under the sounds of the rolling drips of water in the
gutter
I am frozen, though fingers tearing apart the wet
leaves
I pulled off from a tree, wishing they had been
Dry to grind and become the physical appearance of the
wind.
Cracked and peeled back from a boot a portion
Of the snow is removed but refreezes more heavily
On one area of the dead. I stand as an outsider
Imagining myself to allow a job section of today's
newspaper
To become the thoughts that crash along in the mind of
the wind.
I need money but cannot find anything worth doing.
To change from a person to a commercial function to
eat...this..
This day I shall sleep away
As the night. In Springfield, Mo.
The Great God may also await for his eviction.
Two hundred Indians in Houston bow down to Krishna as
the gates
Men lock around him are opened and closed.
But in Springfield he probably awaits,
His red-sock feet on his sofa
As the furnace blows
The Soviet flag on the wall before his feet.
His walls may have many flags,
And his mind thoughts of glasnost and communism
Intermixed.
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