A callous crow call,
in languid winter air
drips into my window -
a hollow eye and glass veneer.

And on a yellow bus,
there's flat and tired
faces, and girls I can tell
look like their mothers.

And outside the school-glass
doors with paper printouts
read backwards in the afternoon
sun, there's more yellow -
filters, leaves, paint.

In libraries there's Faulkner,
there's Proust, Eliot;
and possibly Pynchon;
and in fading snow and
sneaking grass, there's me.