Classic Poem

you
in win
ter who sit
dying thinking
huddled behind dir
ty glass mind muddled
and cuddled by dreams(or some
times vacantly gazing through un
washed panes into a crisp todo of
murdering uncouth faces which pass rap
idly with their breaths.) " people are walking deaths
in this season " think " finality lives up
on them a little more openly than usual
hither,thither who briskly busily carry the as
tonishing & spontaneous & difficult ugliness
of themselves with a more incisive simplicity a
more intensively brutal futility " And sit
huddling dumbly behind three or two partly tran
sparent panes which by some loveless trick sepa
rate one stilled unmoving mind from a hun
dred doomed hurrying brains(by twos
or threes which fiercely rapidly
pass with their breaths) in win
ter you think,die slow
ly " toc-tic " as i
have seen trees(in
whose black bod