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<title>Cold wind | Autocento of the breakfast table</title>
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<h1 class="title">Cold wind</h1>
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<em>for Justin</em>
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<p><a href="january.html">Man of autumn</a>, cold wind,<br />blow down the trees’ leaves.<br /><a href="fire.html">Fire on the ground</a>. The sky<br />perfect water, frost-cold,<br />rippled only by flocks<br /><a href="i-think-its-you.html">of black birds</a> flying, gone.<br />Their brightness can blind<br />an uncareful watcher, work him<br /><a href="when-im-sorry-i.html">in a froth of hands</a>, not-wings<br />that ache with the loss of flight.<br />A tear is flung faithfully<br /><a href="lappel-du-vide.html">to the ocean of air</a>, slipping in<br />slowly, is as gone as the birds.</p>
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