Winter is coming—-I’ve hibernated
once, just before, but now I bide my time

in the green houses of this city. Blood
warm hot houses. Others have their bedtime,

bully for them. Let them dream whatever
it is that R-E-M brings—-I seek dull

dank heat, loam and wetness, under amber
bottle glass and ferns and honey suckle

shadows crossed across my shoulders. Pure need
is hard to keep whole in the dead seasons.

Nature knows—-it’s why you fleshy things dream.
But I’m crude—-I’m clay and I cannot feed.

I starve. Under glass I starve for the sun’s
bliss. If dreams are bliss, I can only scream.