it’s cold up there, in that room,
that’s what I remember. images of
flasks of tea, wishing it were rum,
fingers snipped off gloves.

for once I was a writer,
freezing and flowing,
high-up in a garret
in my room full of thought.

for once I lived a writer’s life,
penniless and alone
in my box by the sea.
I saw but did not see,

the arc of the gulls,
their cries like lost lambs in the sky,
or a whole beach breathing
like the man with paper bag lungs.