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.
