The Inmost Membrane of My Brain

Around its own vertical axis

the body continuously rotates

and as a day-old plaster

is coaxed off in small jerks

pulling fine little hairs with it

on its white sticky side

a piece of dream is torn from

the inmost membrane of my brain

leaving a smooth and tender surface

to remind me of a baby bird’s

pink flesh under a downy wing

the same whirring flick of a whip

behind the eyes each time

until at last a secret

root cellar of pleasures

opens its darkness.

Dearest

Last night the frost came

and this morning snow from the southeast

it fell so quietly

almost unnoticeably

as only the year’s first snow

can drift down

suddenly white

and it made us speak

in voices

turned toward each other

in a different way

with words unpacked

from last winter

It was a marvelous morning

better than I’ve seen in ages

HAPPY SNOWDAY!

cried my son

as he went running

from table to sofa

from window to window –

of course you can’t just walk

when it’s snowing

suddenly white

as I’m sure you know

We’ll have a winter like the one in ’66

snow into April,

said the mailman and handed me the paper

I promised him a beer

if he turned out to be right

– but not till April!

Dearest, the whole day has been so wonderful

in the afternoon as I was reading Frank O’Hara

who has always spoken directly

to the shadows in my blood

I suddenly saw him

smile at me from his picture

just twenty-five years old

you can’t imagine

how happy this made me

Dearest, it’s been much too long

since I heard from you

if you’re snowed in

maybe you’ll have time to write?

if we really have winter

from November to April

how many letters

we could manage to write

– I hope the frost has come

to stay.

Love

Fields have no names

aren’t remembered like streets

each one distinct

only as quiet surfaces

in the rushing unrest of days

turn my winter face

toward the sun above the woods

feel my heart

beating hard

stand with half-closed eyes

and the wind at my back

turned away

from everything I know

stand still

where snowy fields continue

down to the woods

where the squinting eyes glimpse nothing else

where the animal tracks

cross each other

deep in the blue

where they’ve dug their holes in the snow

or burrowed into drifts

in the lee of hedges

and hidden for a few hours

stand completely still

and feel time loosening

feel wind

which is cold

sun

which is warm

like this

the world is simple

it’s just me

not knowing

what I want

it’s just my blood

running

in all directions

a many-branched movement

that makes it so hard

to choose among the words

to decide on

only one life.