Gust smattered gobs of snow glommed to spruce
shingled white, then, through snow fume, a hint
of living green,
the ecstatic without the static, without confines.
Outline is idea, any process is arriving at a humble
clump of words,
so if I say I’m down on my knees what ceiling,
what hands take mine and pull me to my feet?
What fashioned the soft blue tree shadows—no,
wisps of night across day heedlessly laid down,
whatever these are, a gladness I am otherwise.
Humankind hidden, hypothetical as slurred trees
no shape is but that necessity strictly conforms,
walks into the eyes, nothing out there to kneel.
Cut and dried aesthetics, art at its most frugal
the universalizing principality of Smother-love
some universalizing thief
has taken all the fine detail away, as proof
that we’ve always been losing our memories,
white drop-cloth over sidewalks, driveways,
abstract forms—balustrades on fence posts.
Thrown pots on lampposts, pedimented flat-roofs,
beveled to bedding for the wind’s insomnia,
bushes—overstuffed sofas—plush cushions
the un-dug-out cars awaiting derelict orders,
marmorial empire—what absentee would want
this inhospitably over the furniture of the air—
Hedges are blizzard-coral, a great reef crystallizes,
screened is arctic-aquatic now, under an ice cap
even breath asphyxiates, even its own passing, nether
Silted earth’s ghost—a heavily, indrawn vaguary—
drew frost-graffiti-d windows, specifics randomly
that there is subject to this the human wish.
What of those leery leather oak leaf gloves no one
who would go out in this would become statue,
sculptured marble, I can’t make out the sign or name
of my own street,
who would pull me over them like a sweater,
who would like to be undergone gone under.
Footprints shallow, a pathetic picket deer fence
snow picketed with less precision than the fence,
similitude, what a sham, it sculpts no clear edge,
rounded is edge, what a beautiful sham is this,
do you see,
the blind eyes of the neighborly windows,
it must be dark inside the average houses,
indefinite all day rends and shrills this squall,
you want that?
Do you really think you know who we are?
What of the fictive emptiness, what is purpose
snow, that which surrounds me, you You,
you are not a curtain I or we need to open.
The neighbors occupy the world they seem,
Eyesight falls so far in me, my happiness
no need to touch my flesh or hers, that, her shining face,
not today, this another sort of surrender,
mid afternoon I lie down in my warmth.
Bushes tabletopped and then tented over,
three juncos dart in and out of one of the gapes,
two come back out, but I have seen more go in
than go out,
go into a permeable enclosure there.
It must be better altogether like tha
These branches more than half draped white
and shouldering more snow than branch,
the snow fall so hoisted above more-of-the same
is lifted up,
held up into you and from these eyes.
Whatever you see, I would like to say
whatever you make of this I would make yours,
whatever we hurt from and we abide
be lifted up, for the beautiful is ours.