Another Winter Dreaded

It seems I must live through
Another dreaded winter.
It is not the cold I mind so much.
And even though I tell myself that the distance
From home is what kills me, I know
That that is not true
In the strictest sense. Whence
Then this fear, this isolation,
This feeling of screaming in a soundproof room
This feeling of living in a noisy grave.

This beautiful, cold, hard city does not know me,
And what is worse, she could not care less. Best then
To make the best of her bare trees, her bitter snows,
Her brittle smiles, her beautiful bones.

It is really not possible

To be clever all the time
To lift one's conversation high
Above the mundane
And to keep it there.

But if I didn't, would you still find
Me interesting, or would you be blind
To my duller charms.

Because you see, my dear, I really
Couldn't be with someone who couldn't
Watch me read.

(It's very charming, I assure you.)

Nothing in particular

In particular, there is nothing
Except a dissatisfaction
A shameless secret grudge of the night
That is always on the run.

And is followed by all the sticks and stones
That are the portion
Of a conscientious soul.

A cynic perhaps, would be better rewarded
But I, my dear, would rather be dead.

In particular, there is nothing.