A Winter's Tale

As for me, 1927 began again. For you, there is winter enough to spare.
Especially the afternoon starts to remember a remnant of our former
selves. You dust the corridor and apply yourself to a mathematics
that belongs to a different world. Which is why you're working against
it, somehow, figuring numbers won't stand a difference, demanding
a different kind of future. Or a single strand of something to hold onto.
Aimlessly we wander, wanting to forge through an aspect of happy
we never wanted to know. Or knowing, have made clear to ourselves
that we shouldn't own. But maybe turnips will shine brighter today.
Maybe your cravat will form an alliance with the sunship. And if not,
then we'll think about the symbiotic structures that unwillingly bind
us together. Haven't you ever thought about fountains. And don't you
want to be surrounded by unwarranted calculations. You are the poster
I tack on the wall. You mention Lawrence Sterne, and I count buttons
as they fall from your coat.