From out this window
I watch a wire
in the snow
The purity of its intent
To exist
It is nothing like the wings
That also shadow this glass
It is the thing
Of which hours are made
A piece of string
You believe in it one day
The way it crosses the landscape
Something holds it at either end
But these anchors
Are mercifully out of our view


Here, wash this simple board.
Though your hands will be freezing.
Because the landscape is freezing.
The water turns to ice on bones of your hand.
This is good.
For the ice. For the landscape.
For the process that wants to happen.
Scrub the board.
See how it shines with the wet?
See how the ice shines?
Soon it will look like a fresh bride.

You will be crazy cold.

Soon you will feel delight.


There is a puddle of violets
Behind a house in the snow
It is a hallucination
It is a coming home
The boards of the house
Now, they are filled with wind
They are soaked in rain
The carpet is a brand-new moss one
If there’s any ink left, let it run
A field approaches the house
And tries to engage it by wind
Through the yellow wild grasses
It goes like love mist through the curtains
Still dancing in broken windows
Oh, you have made no mistake
Says the wind to the house as a lover
But the empty house weeps like a sinner

Portrait of a Small Town

Here we have a philosophic parking lot
between tall buildings.
Both are forgotten,
their doors are gone,
but weeds gyre there
through asphalt,
and the weird sorts of “flowers”
each stubbornness gets,
it grovels on
the nearest sky.
And it is a life,
we call it a life
to find, and it is
a life to lose,
its various folds,
to collapse into integument,
to become a stone
with our arms across
our chests at the end.
Across the street
though, it is still now,
I mean the green sort,
dirty old steel mill canal
nobody uses anymore
except the fish
with long whiskers
and protected opalescence
that no one would ever
think to call