The Steppes It is cold in the steppes; Nothing lives there Save a few frigid souls. Barren souls who died their deaths Sometime ago. It is lonely in the steppes; Its black velvet lace Erupts into steamy fever, Swallows torrid rain. This half-glass, half-lead Arctic bowel Sprawls across my brow, Deep and soft As freshly turned earth; A waiting tunnel. ©1998 Sally