The blinds are closed. Winter is here, as always Looking like the bare tree and the fruitless bush. The sky today is a damp, industrial gray, Making the day seemingly silver When really it is zinc. Inside the world goes on whirling In its confusions about heaven and hell. As I drink my morning tea I’m accused by the clock of failure, And by the empty sheets of paper Of irresponsibility, and accused By the window of self-love. Who could go to heaven, whimpering And hidden as I am, with my disorders Of psyche, my fraudulent life? In the Old Testament I would have lived Among many like me, As I do now.