Words go on travelling from voice br to voice while the phones are still br and the wires hum in the cold. Now br and then dark winter birds settle br slowly on the crossbars, where huddled br they caw out their loneliness. Except br for them the March world is white br and barely alive. The train to Providence br moans somewhere near the end br of town, and the churning of metal br on metal from so many miles away br is only a high thin note trilling br the frozen air. Years ago I lived br not far from here, grown to fat br and austerity, a man who came br closely shaven to breakfast and ate br in silence and left punctually, alone, br for work. So it was I saw it all br and turned away to where snow br fell into snow and the wind spoke br in the incomprehensible syllable br of wind, and I could be anyone: br a man whose life lay open before him, br a book with no ending, a widow br bearing white carnations at dusk br to a hillside graveyard turned br to blank rubble, a cinder floating br down to earth and blinking slowly out, br too small to mean a thing, too tired br to even sigh. If life comes back, br as we are told it does, each time one br step closer to the edge of truth, br then I am ready for the dawn br that calls a sullen boy from sleep br rubbing his eyes on a white window br and knowing none of it can last the day.