Winter is a gaunt
gimlet,
insomniac in sand,
its new gift,
blue and skeletal,
thrumming,
That plague
of clockwatchers,
that lazybones of morning
commutes!
Even so
everyone applauds
that green sun
shyly
at the horizon.
For who can ignore
the Jesus bug
crossing
the pond?
And who
hides in clouded soil,
sinking
to lazier bones?
No one
is sick; nowhere,
No one.
No one feels sick.