but always these sad, sad poems:
in the southernmost city i can possibly imagine
they still think of SOUTHPOLE, hoping to drift
on pack ice, making purchases in fur boots.
but even so: NOWHERE is there as much
laughter as here, nowhere smoked
worse. but the raven laughter
always sounds like the laments of children
before one of the first thunderstorms, before eight.
towards evening the poems tug at the light.
by night there is laughter + little + little