Lent
poem
This is the lent, the slow time
Where things are made like to themselves
And one more winter goes out wailing
And you, thinking to find delight
In beautiful dead eyes, are struck
By the cold in your own cold hell
(Days unvaried, stretching
Out long as life or automation).
Peace is made
Between the separate atmospheres,
Icily and slow,
One world ground toward the next:
You live, whole and shattered open
As ice on salt-white pavement.