Cut Off the Ears of Winter

　　by Peter Covino

　　 Cut off the ears of winter

　　 they have overheard too much，

　　 where incinerators burn，

　　 where rubble-strewn streets

　　 are covered in dust from the remodeling.

　　 Again， the doe-man in mauve cashmere-

　　 the nerve of him-in the never world

　　 （where ashes are harvested） where

　　 ashes rain down in glory， a jackpot

　　 of answers. Tonight， the underwriting

　　 of desire is an inky carbon copy.

　　 I have already-that last time drunk

　　 on scotch. Then all morning

　　 a chain gang of transvestite prostitutes

　　 litters the front yard-the Police Station

　　 next door also on fire， burning，

　　 burning handcuffs， the soles of shoes

　　 not holding the earth， cars skidding

　　 everywhere， the tire's frame sets sparks

　　 along the road. This is my last dollar，

　　 last cigarette， last match.

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