Winter
One winter, I became very quiet
and saw my life. It was February
and outside in the city streets,
snow fell but would not collect.
I bought snapdragons and thistle,
got some discount peach roses
that smelled off. I split them
between vases and moved
the bouquets from room to room
while a violin solo rang out.
My throat hurt. My tonsils grew
blubbery like two fat snails,
kissing in a slow arc.
A detective show played.
I wanted a cigarette
and Jimmy Stewart in my bed.
Nightly, I dreamt of epileptic
Dostoevsky in Siberia with only
the New Testament to read
and thought of that mock execution
from which he never recovered.
Four years he spent there
in the dead cold. I have
two cats in New York
and not so much loneliness.
Still, I prepare for their deaths,
but who knows, I may go first.
Sorry, but I’m like this in winter.
My composure an evergreen with
the settled world that keeps settling.
I trek the season.
I arrange the dance of blooms,
room to room, and keep
my small perimeter fed and alive.
We tread to March
like soldiers, like sailors tossed
into navy tides, into
wave white, and who,
spotting land, at last,
grow gills at its sight.
