December 31, 2001

• Snow Hits Buffalo, N.Y. Cabin Fever by Virginia Conn (from WHEEL’s 1997 chapbook) I’m freezing, so I tack flannel sheets under the blinds, discovering the frost has resurrected the finger oils of someone named Linda. Twice the precise lettering appears, well out of reach of a child’s hand. The window overlooks the street. I’ve stood there, impatient for mail or visitors, yet this is the first I’ve heard from her. I scan my studio for other traces, blaming her for the erratic nails, especially one eye level screw, dead center, that no painting hangs from comfortably. I start to attribute other mischief to her; misplaced keys and night knocks, then fear she may be trapped, the bitter cold compelling her to contact me. “I never got out. It never warmed up.” I keep checking the pane for further word. I remind myself: It is winter everywhere. Outside, Buffalo trudges past, layered in clothes like shuck on corn. Like that screw, an act of defiance, Linda versus concrete, in relief of the wide white wall.

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