November Morning
for my mother A line of sparrows rises from the hedge Like a simple declarative sentence. You were alone then, without friends. This morning I woke up in a cold house And remembered. I have a few friends. I have learned to live with one woman, And finally, with your death. As if to make Sense of it, I translate the short paragraphs My breath writes in the cold. I listen All night to the hum of a snowfall. Either I loved you or I didn’t. I say it now, But in a small room you waited for me once And I didn’t come. I wonder what you heard, The few words I hadn’t learned to say, The mice gnawing on your hardwood coffin?
Weather
I don’t come in from the rain because It isn’t raining. Still, the dampness Of your voice on the telephone Must have come from a darkened sky, And there wasn’t time to shut the windows. You’re wet, your hair smells of ozone. I imagine you waiting for the clouds To pass, seeing a different man In each nimbus, in the closets, under the bed. I put on my raincoat just in case. You must understand That love suffers this weather too. The street steams like an iron On a moist sheet. Anyway, the rain has started again. This time it will last a month. Can you Hear it lisping against your windows, waiting Just outside like a lover, patiently Cultivating pure white mushrooms?
Letter To Wisconsin
The crook of my arm Repeats the chevron of geese overhead Heading south. I wonder if winter has come yet To those northern, spiritual lakes. Like them I’m religious by association, and cold. I don’t care if I have no more whiskey. I remember those long afternoons we lay In bed, speechless as fish under the ice. I wanted to take off your clothes, simply. Although the leaves are flying like a migration Of rags, I’ve found a place to sleep. If You’ve gone to bed and it’s late, turn on The light, walk quickly across the floor As if you heard me tap on the window.
