Cold? He asks from a train seat
To idiot across, who says very.
In makeshift bed they would lie
And touch a death to feel softly
And the year would mingle salt
And difficulty of death with life.
We may mingle salt and sugar,
Morning tea on makeshift bed.
We are idiots inching to a love.
Cold ? He asks and we say very.
(Remembering Dostoevsky’s novel The Idiot)