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.