Morning

Sunrise is all dragon fire

skies, translucent breath,

and absent headed

 

searching for keys

to rooms held open.

The fresh heft of friends

 

in snow, after holiday.

And like all stories,

made of truth

 

mischief and boredom.

What does it make of me?

What does it mean to you?

_

Snowstorm

You gently lift the baby

slung across my chest,

take her from me,

with more tenderness for me

than our baby.

This is your way.

 

The other little one

curls warm under the arm

that I drape over him

like a wing stapled close

But really it is your breadth

that shelters us all. Lives.

 

Snow enslaves all

we walk with staves,

you look like someone

out of the Old Testament.

Your anger when it comes

is just, but still just anger.

 

Snow is inevitable,

wondrous in volume.

These words turn in me

cold as a key in the lock.

There’s no turning back now.

No. No taking them back.

_

 

Take

Love, certain parts of me

are almost yours. Started

mine, now given to you.

 

For your care and time

the sway of your stare

your plea, your pledge

your touch like breath

our every pause a womb

where love is born

 

Make

every breath

is so much wind-rinsed dust

every breath

begins a thought unsaid

 

till sweetness

turns speech in two-three tongues

till dreams

drop like calm climbing touch

 

on legs

galloping deep in the night

to legs

that blossom asleep in bed

_

‘Night

It takes her a moment

to figure things out:

the clock didn’t stop working;

it really is 3:52 in the morning.

 

When’s the last time you caught

the clock staring at 3:52?

Too early. Still night,

not yet morning. Be still night.

 

The rattling of the house

lulls her sleep to deep;

then capriciously,

wakes her up again.

 

She says: fuck that.

without anger.

Tastes the calm relish

of expecting nothing.

_

Often

Often there are strangers’ voices

speaking sounds not words

Often there are men in the house

their fists rising like voices

 

Nobody notices that I am gone

sleeping and eating like an animal

in the ditch curved protectively

around the house

 

And often, I have the power 

to make them disappear

simply, stealthily putting

my palms to my eyes, my ears.

__

End Ice

 

Rain makes

unanticipated patterns

on the windows

like broken glass.

And on the street

windshields

like cobwebby ice.

The old man inside

is laughing.

Or coughing.

__