Luci Shaw


Freezing Rain

Most of the things a poet has to say
are tentative, lists of foggy clues
and suppositions-an unattested version
of the way the wind breathes at night,
an essay at atmosphere, predictions
as unreliable as weather forecasts. I stab
at the truth with a pencil, sometimes,
moved too suddenly to words by the shadings
on a cloud, or its shape, shivering

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