A Pen is Not a Key

I sit in the doorway to your house,
writing this.
Inside icefish blue skylight.
Thin squares of cold on the floor.
Furnace tunnels through, wanders
with the hours
from room to room.
One up the stairs to your bedroom window.
One on the chilly basement floor.
All this way,
and circled back.
Huffing and puffing.
They say, stay-put. Don’t move.
Don’t look when the bus passes.
Come in,
have tea, watch blankly as steam
leadens the glass,
trees back into the grey sky,
branches feel out the silence,
full when I fell in love.
How long is that.
My pen is as nearly silent
as the ticks of a clock in the kitchen,
the sound picking a lock.
Pen is my signature you keep
in your purse. A pen
is not a key, a real key
to your front door,
to all your rooms.
I’m not the one who enters.

Snow Falling in the Woods

Nothing moves.
Bodies are weightless,
The ground remains
Pure light.
And I’m stepping closer, too.
Ladders of sunlight are
Climbing down,
Clearing woods; soon
I’ll have nothing to say.
My tracks will be its whisper,
Its last word,
My snowy breath.

The body is a forest 

The body is a forest.
Bones are trees of flesh.
We are mystery because we
cannot translate love, though
our bodies remember it
before it is known. When it becomes known
its light makes it forgotten,
because it is made new.
This occurs because
a body loves,
but the body is not love.
It is the way to love.
A body is only animal.
Love is only human.
God never exists because
He is the God of decomposition,
shedding flesh and seasons.
Bodiless, She never loves.
Boneless, it never stumbles,
or leaps; it never touches a woman’s hair,
which with certainty is a revelation of wind
through branches.
We kiss because we are rivers.
We embrace because we are oceans.
We touch because we love the rain.

Here in the woods, Rebecca, I would to tell you the whole story, but what I love about trees is their silence.

The Edges of Things

I point to the lake we came to.
Summer, your ankles stalked in brake
and yellow goldenrod,
red sumac in your hair,
aura of mosquitoes washing in emptiness,
silence’s low flutter,
lighting the edges of things.
Here, then, is winter.
Atmosphere’s distant talk mixes
over pale unworldliness of ice,
yields to its close-fitting jacket,
buttoned with rocks,
their white-pointed backs,
stepping stones, shining with arrival.

Your small, white feathers

on the back of the seat in my car
are still there. Or, rather, your coat’s.
The day you said, you’d have
another by Christmas.
Now winter’s here.
It must be coincidence,
at night when I open the balcony door,
and hear the jay repeating itself
from the nest,
from nowhere last spring,
stuck still on that branch,
like a bow.
I open the door as wide as it goes,
listen as it comes in.
And when I wake the room is very cold.
I take the car and I drive.
I pass field after field,
wrapped in frost, like a gift
I was never meant to open.