When the
Gave out, we
Burning the books, one by one;
First the
Of
And then the Walter Scott.
They gave a lot of warmth.
Toward the end,
February,
Consumed the
Tragedians and Baudelaire,
Proust,
Robert
And the Po-Chu-i.
Thickened on the sills.
More for the sake of the cat,
We said, than for ourselves,
Who huddled, shivering,
Against the
All winter long.
