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 . . .

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 19 Number 2, on page 39
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https://newcriterion.com/issues/2000/10/chalet