In my study, which is without heat,
in mid-January, in the hills
of a northern province—only
the thin white-haired volumes
of poetry speak, quietly, like
unfed birds on a night visit

to a cat farm. And an airplane is lost
in a storm of fitting pins.
The snow falls, far into the interior.

And all you can say after the long nightof searching for one certain scrap of paper:
It never existed.
And when all the lamps are lit and the smell of the stew
has followed you upstairs
and slipped under the door of your study:
The lute is telling the story
of the life I might have lived,
had I not—

It’s back for me! Thanks for your hard work on making this app so great!

Ethan