Blockhead

The ice wasn't broken with a perceptive goodbye, rather
the greeting of a ghost, who shows up to see that
he haunts through the fell, frozen impact of three month dust,
told and untold. On the music scenes and over the airways.
In the small boxes and under the oppressive nights. Regardless,
whatever he may see in me, surely,  '100 degrees of nostalgia,'
truly, 'trapped and centi-mental'.

-W.C.Smith