On the stone with the Raphael cherub,
a robin sits and I smoke in sunlight,
windchill at ten below, four days shy
of Xmas, the ground yet without snow--

O. I know my life is wasted; that this
is proof I've sold my soul to beauty,
and she, as truth, is cold-- but that,
as I fold the left side of my jacket

over the right and exhale a glinting
smoke, is merely a context grown ripe
to know-- what fruit in its wet fire
will not rot, even if frozen? My love

is dry and slow; my thought is soft
and bold; my heart clamors unheard--
Here are my eyes, little bird: coal.
Here too, my immortal throat: dirt.