Hinterland         
 

The boy in the shop grins like a carved pumpkin
he is so pleased. And takes my money.

The sleet outside stabs my plumply face
a thousand little daggers.
And in the Ice Pick Hotel, as I prefer to call it,
we can hear the wind squealing as it skids around the corner.

The weather is a vast savanna of blotting paper
absorbing the leaves, the grass, that fancy filigree
fountain, the dark slates on the opposite roof;
and we are erased, expunged.
So here comes the white, then this is the white,
and we penetrate the hinterland.