These afternoons seem to occur more In geologic time than in one's life. Under the blue fresh snowfall, Sandstone outcrops generate heat. I count fifteen kinds of tracks, Like runes, and nothing living. Drifted snow, an ethered gauze, Muffles the land, creaks under my skis, Animals sleep among the roots, Without doors, without dreams. Seven miles for a phone And even the wires have gone under. Another day knowing nothing more Than when I last saw you, That stainless-steel shadow Vigilant over your bed. It followed you down the hospital halls, Arms hung with surgical fruit. I slide down the last drift to the house, Slap my skis together. A small avalanche, shaped like a continent, Drifts off the roof and falls into a heap, And some chinking falls from the eaves. We each inhabit our own Small flesh, our tract. Each tries to keep his own Doors from creaking, like news, As each night slams shut, and each dawn opens Like a sudden flow of blood from the mouth. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CHILD'S EVENING HYMN by SABINE BARING-GOULD SAILING BEYOND SEAS (OLD STYLE) by JEAN INGELOW ODE FOR THE AMERICAN DEAD IN ASIA by THOMAS MCGRATH BALLADE OF BROKEN FLUTES by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON THE AFTER WOMAN by FRANCIS THOMPSON TO FOREIGN LANDS by WALT WHITMAN |