11/21/09

About the winter constellations, about the horizon and the hillsides,
About the end of the foliage, then about rivers and the nearby lakes,
And the canoes and the barges and flotation rafts and sailboats,
And waterfall and the mills and about the space between them,
And the main street and the local businesses, about the local eateries
And the hardware and thrift stores, about a row of unkempt Victorian houses
Lining the northern thoroughfare until you approach the left turn
To the garbage dump and the recycling center.
The constellations, above the wisps of clouds, look cold, their light
As cold as the helping hand of the deceased, as the water pouring
Through springs below the earth. As the time that no one has to give to the needy,
As constellations reflected on the surface of some off-season lake,
As the surface of the lake as undisturbed as by a paddle.
The clarity of constellations to the naked eye in the countryside,
The nimbus of the street-lamps that blurs the constellations.
From the hilltop, they shout at you from above, each single star
Of which you must sadly admit you are not adept at identifying.
My blankets have become a sweat lodge in which I wrap myself
Until I begin to sweat profusely through my bedclothes as the sun
Breaks above the White Mountains. Of abstractions
Or of conceits have I little awareness unless they are contiguous
To the concrete and quotidian, such as household chores.
And of rubbing sticks to make fire I am well aware of the associations.