The snow and the twilight have turned the air as cloudy blue as seaglass, so that trees, telephone poles, houses with yellow-lit windows, fade off much more quickly into the dusk as into fog. I shoveled the front walk and the driveway twice in the same hour and they don't look it. Three days ago, I walked into Harvard Square under such warmth of the sun that I was carrying my jacket over my arm before I'd gotten ten feet from the subway, thinking that any day now I could sing "Wild Mountain Thyme." This ghost-blue storm is midwinter, not less than a week from spring. I baked apples for dessert; I'm translating Greek lyric. Right now, I can live with this.
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- 1: I'm drinking heartbreak motor oil and Bombay gin
- 2: This new one is derived, he tells me, from page 225 of the London telephone directory
- 3: Give me a cipher, give me a lover, set me free
- 4: It's not what I was made to do, but believe me, I still care
- 5: Re-reading our texts from the strawberry days
- 6: Am I one of those human beings?
- 7: Just took time to say, I'll drop you a line
- 8: I'm yours in the day and the dead of night
- 9: And four hours north of Portland, the radio flips on
- 10: You are just the fingertips of something
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