Icicle (Number 1)

In dusk November, the red sheets beneath my body.

The box fan mixes a cocktail of air from the radiator
heat and the chill creeping in from the cracked window.

The poets are with me, intoxicated and alone-
I have their words and plenty of booze
to get those ideas out tonight.


(11-16-02)

by John Farrell

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