Edgar Poe

Winter’s the thing.
A place to lay one’s head.
To sleep at last

to sleep. Blue on flesh
in snow light,
iced boughs overhead.

This is a poem about breath,
brick, a piece of ink
in the distance.

Winter’s the thing
I miss. The font is still.
A fanfare of stone air.
© Peter Gizzi, from In Defense of Nothing: Selected Poems, 1987-2001, Wesleyan University Press (taken from Poetry Daily, March 12, 2014)

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