an almost accidental gathering of poets
 
   
 
 
Leonard Cohen
 
Snow is falling
Snow is falling.
There is a nude in my room.
She surveys the wine-colored carpet.

She is eighteen.
She has straight hair.
She speaks no Montreal language.

She doesn´t feel like sitting down.
She shows no gooseflesh.
We can hear the storm.

She is lighting a cigarette
from the gas range.
She holds back her long hair.
   
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