Winter is here.

Waifs and mudlarks turn angels in the snow, so

Our little joke goes.

We, as children, warm our frosted ankles by the fireplace.

Then an unwelcome thud ushers

The waxen corse, ah!

Gurning its piebald pate,

Leaking its pâté de foie gras ichor

Like love songs daubing over

Our abortive hearts fitfully jumping as I,

With trembling hands, lave in dells

Under trees mulched with half-whispered whims.

Winter is here.

Snow deadens wasteful words.

If from the rot of May blooms the flower of our June,

Aye, I will die for you.