To the Artist's Page To our home page
To W. B. Keckler's previous piece
Icy We leaves on the sill so red. You'd think they might grow nerves. A spider (dead) in this glass box. How'd that happen? Cat and telephone asleep. Chip of coal you sent me lies on top of my bookshelf, crushed time, a poem. Once a prehistoric living day. Now fuel for us. Once I thought I could warm myself but now I realize I'm just like all of you. Temperature of the world, of the word too. Freezing tonight.