It was not something identical with my carnation-world

But its smallest possession—a hair or a sneeze—

I wanted. I remember

Dreaming on tan plush the wrong dreams

Of asking fortunes, now lost

In what snows? Is there anything

We dare credit? And we get along

The soul resumes its teachings. Winter boats

Are visible in the harbor. A child writes

“La pluie.” All noise is engendered

As we sit listening. I lose myself

In others’ dreams.

Why no vacation from these fortunes, from the white hair

Of the old? These dreams of tennis?

Fortunately, the snow, cutting like a knife,

Protects too itself from us.

Not so with this rouge I send to you

At old Christmas. Here the mysteries

And the color of holly are embezzled—

Poor form, poor watchman for my holidays,

My days of name-calling and blood-letting.

Do not fear the exasperation of death

(Whichever way I go is solitary)

Or the candles blown out by your passing.

It breathes a proper farewell, the panic

Under sleep like grave under stone,

Warning of sad renewals of the spirit.

In cheap gardens, fortunes. Or we might never depart.