SNOW BOUND

Snow has muffled
my speech
at Beacon Chambers
rooming house
frozen like grackles
on my window sill
hearing the Advent bells
as the midnight storm
continues its chanting winds
my hunger is murdered
under a red blanket
writing a Beat poem
for an underground mag
with a host of syllables
in front of my mirror
with lipstick stains
my mouth contemplates
bread and love
hearing disco,
black roses appear
in my vase
and Walt Whitman
is behind the drapes
music moves your hips
Lorca spreads his thighs
to my Beat poem
Garbo whispers to me
holds my hand in hers
with a rose in her hair
and my poem is translated
by her in Swedish.