The bedroom lies open to the wet vamp of night’s continuous noise. The piano in the teeth is not awake, but a toothache, and I find myself there, the roof
returned, my wife still asleep, undisturbed.
The decoration of the body. The decoration of the body against the iced treeline of the self, the winter birds at
their brightest. The sun there bright as this one, and lowering like this one, lowering into the self.
Every few seconds a snowflake clipping along
on the naked breeze. A bare strip of cerulean (like sky, it is sky) breaking
dark from dark in the dusk’s flaming clouds. Every few seconds: a snowflake.
I feel my guts brushing gravel fathoms beneath
my heels. The field and its clumped soul of soil, the stars flattened
under the soil, and past them: ice herding against ice, in darkness forever.
The clipper flies tonight, green as a fairway
and then white behind the weatherman’s hopeless fawning. The roads sit saltless, the neighbors rattling down their wooden stairs. My thick book
of birds lies open.
The letters fly over you, a swarm of southbound moths, the dream and the bed (two objects the world wishes always to reverse) bob under the squall. You sleep without moving. You hear none of it, the yard folding, the ladder’s escape.