The wild wind, the white wind . . .

Inside, in their long weekend,
Perhaps their last, there seems no season
Only exhausted obsession
With their past, like a film in color
Perversely techniqued to black-and-white,
Their unfeeling set in the pallor
Of a stiff glaze.
—But now
Suddenly, a frenzy of love-hate . . .

The wolf-wind howls through the snow . . .