Preface:
Within my gloves,
cold sweat still clings to my
fingertips as
do drippings from peeling
overripe oranges;
memory slips into a place
forgotten
for years…
My forearms’ skin,
embossed by tiny, superheated soup
bones
left over from a thousand
death-sentence suppers,
reminds me that we must court
and woo each feast as it presents:
each with a specific atomic
and metaphysic weight,
unique like the quantity of
snowflakes
held upon each of ten thousand
holy, high peaks.
Canticle:
The rhythm of death’s resignation,
in remembrance of the
moveable, jocund dust
of countless questing
journeys, embraces me within the day’s dance.
In truth, I am the dust on the
floor, on tchotchkes, the sacred relics-
dependent on the memory of
your reflection in
limpid, rippling water.
Even amongst the redolent odor
of
lifeless percentages strewn at
your naked feet,
I remember you as indelibly
handsome.
A Return:
Remember, though-
among different kinds of
snowfall is this:
pausing to spy the black-capped
chickadees brave enough to play despite this cold,
my nose is incessantly tickled
by tiny flakes
in this blurry month of
January
(in which, as a habit, I
uncharacteristically wear no shortpants).
That snow is an irksome ally
though it marks some with a
blackened spot,
tearing holes in families, nests,
and beaver dams.
As some return year after year
to push through the dark,
still others thrive.
Epilogue:
In January, the depth of which
is abundance in hibernation,
causality is very often
impenetrable
so that we can learn patience.
That which so few of us
recognize as
Deep Fear,
after
all we can do,
is drawn ultimately
toward the same opaque end.
