The novel was a good read, a really good one.

Except for the middle pages, how unclassical.

They were supposed to meet in the lavender snow

in some Cambridge bookfair.

However, it appeared that the city out of the book

was shivering in Christmas snow.

The fantasies fell as snowflakes,

stamped in her heavy rainboots.

You're the dumb writer without a cup of coffee—

holding a cheap pen, staring around blankly.

You once wanted to pen your past

in a whole, fat book.

It turned out that your past's now dead in heavy snowfall,

faded in unclustered snow, how pale for pity.

The words, now poisoned, are struggling to get out of here;

Heaps of snowy ashes, flickering orange flames.

You don't have your world anywhere, inside or out.