Edgar Poe

Peter Gizzi

Winter's the thing.

A place to lay one's head.

To sleep at last

to sleep. Blue on flesh

in snow light,

iced boughs overhead.

This is a poem about breath,

brick, a piece of ink

in the distance.

Winter's the thing

I miss. The font is still.

A fanfare（吹牛，炫耀） of stone air.