I know you are there I don't see you much
How do you winter alone under the dead-
Pan moonlight impolite as bone chill
How do you cope with creaky bones
All by yourself a whiffle ball of seasoned
Shifts in what passes for the edges 
Of solitude wanted or unwanted crisp
Branches snap against the one-paned window
Sparrows maybe flit past your view
 
 

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