Susan Maurer



February’s dower is grey-slicked ice,

tiny pastel hearts which crunch and say

one Jenny Holzer word before they’re gone.

Oh, pierrot-ette of the sole, turn.

It’s Nureyev in clogs, smaller than you would have imagined,

fearful, asking as if he had achieved anonymity,

"Where is the underground?" Wrong city, darling, but

all I do is point as if he were a passerby.

Come to me this time, I beckon

with a wave of my hand, cum-eer.

Come here.

I can tell you that while April may be cruel February is

the month of greed and greed is good.

Copyright © 2003 Susan Maurer.  All Rights Reserved.

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