months of cold silence
then this, the cadence of wrens
warming ears like nests
This morning from my bed I saw the walls
And the ceilings and the floors of the room
Come into orange light. What the sky must feel.
And the sun rang softly behind the cathedral.
And inside, the snow turned
To wheat on my winter skin.
And it rang distant laughter of cold from wide-mouthed
Fields and often in secret I felt crows trade there
Inside the bodies of wind.
Then scatter, and then fall, into loose strands of hair
From a face, a bleary cloud.
But, how do you remember a cloud, I ask,
As I drive out from the city, through winter,
Almost invisible now and
The part of all my going, it seems, a touch,
But not. Wanting more from
Whatever it was we wanted.
I’ve done my taxes,
like a normal person
my poetry and
which you can
declare partial credit,
in residual value,
and now I’m
a citizen of
though I might
claim them as a
and hope, like the
rest of us,
for a great
in the mail
death, just like
a normal person.
“And what did you want? To call myself beloved,
to feel myself beloved on the earth.” ~ Raymond Carver
He wrote to her on Biggar Lake and in his notebook
drew canoes from the island threading across
the page of sky which expanded and
unburdened him and when he leapt in naked
and swam it surrounded him in the borderless ways
in which the body of water held the island open
on its palm, so freely he imagined it embracing
the wind in order to move away from shore,
and to shed its own light.
I am writing this at a window and you are drinking wine
And you smile amazed of what still can happen to men like me
Who believe that beauty saves us
In that it rests beyond our momentary world and enters
Into a glaze of hope, this being desire; and this love
That visits us in the time of passing rains
Fleeing briefly across winter’s end and onto spring’s first days,
New water of ashen skin smoothed in rotten barley and field ice
And the taste of sky and honeyed shadows; but we do our
Best to recognize this earth as we surface again, and our closeness
Shelters in distant, naked trees lined tightly inside ribs of snow,
The past’s weight extinct of what winter shouldered
And what spring could be this moment if only bodies
Would be what they remembered. Like the wind that parries up
Against the woods from my car saying, “I am taking you back to her.
The empty part of her, the barren isle of you.” It claims,
“Love hypothesizes that which is mostly free of the world.”
And I hear you are still amazed that this is you
In Montreal by this window drinking wine where I gaze
Into the gleam of Montreal’s blank table, and onto Montreal’s vacant stools,
And see through Montreal’s vanished glasses held up into
The smell of wild rain and the memory of strangers
And a room by a window, and its long afternoon
Holding inside itself the oblivion of two bodies still touching
In waning Montreal, in all that I know of you. Nothing, completely.