What the Wind Whips Up

North wind
On the prairie,
Blowing through
The fences.

There is enough
Light to make
Out a black cat
On the woodpile.

My waiting grave
Has snow on it
And seems empty
Without a stone.

Downtown,
The shop windows
Are red with neon.
Ash from the Goths

Smoking nearby
Has settled on
The bum’s blanket.
A tip of a pine

Touches the church
Steeple. A woman
Sweeping stops
To look at the sky.