It is almost November.

Dark.

No Snow.

It is hard to exercise.

Limbs Ache.

The Sacred Boredom stretches from the corner of

Semi-Wintry Clouds.

The semblance of activity, hurried words in the cold.

I Met a friend during these masked Weeks.

I tried to Ignore Him, but the circumstances brought it to a stage where it would have been too obvious.

I said a few words, he, some, we parted and Only Now I remembered his Time-Machine Face.


It was not clear.

Even now it keeps in the Dark.

My guest held his foot in the Door-chink.

His name was A faceless Terror of Quiet and Lonely Winter Days.

Reading Carver, Through the Window


No footsteps in the Snow.