Stan Mir
FEVER, FROM EACH WINDOW
The wind is all arms
& cruel. It does not do
what you do. Midday
the streets are noiseless.
I have set a limit
to my talking. Glove,
you have fooled me
into a hand.
The wind is all arms
& cruel. It does not do
what you do. Midday
the streets are noiseless.
I have set a limit
to my talking. Glove,
you have fooled me
into a hand.