My poems seem to change in the summer
Ignoring me even more than usual.
Come winter, Raskalnikov and Little Nell
Will be after me to write something for them
Gloomy, deep; poems you can hit with a mallet
And leave no crack, no chip, no dent.
(You there – trying to recall where you left
Your mallet – put the thought aside.)
The hot weather wants airy poems, with holes
For the wind to blow through, and hinges
So they can be put away when it starts raining.
I assume Little Nell and Raskalnikov
Are on vacation now; talking on some beach
About Daniel Quilp and Sonia Marmeladov.