The traveler struggles through a wood. He is lost.
The traveler is at home. He never left.
He seeks his way on the conflicting trails,

Eugene would say, "Someone died . Time to redecorate."
Everything we owned was secondhand.
We needed to move. We were running out of space.

Winter was the ravaging in the scarified
Ghost garden, a freak of letters crossing down a rare

Path bleak with poplars. The yew were a crewel

A hears by chance a familiar name, and the name solves a 
      riddle of the past. 
B, in love with A, receives an unsigned letter in which the 

Neither an invalid aunt who had been asked to care for a
                                                                                              sister’s
little girl, to fill the dead sister’s place, nor the child herself

. . . telling those who swarm around him his desire
is that an appendage from each of them
fill, invade each of his orifices, —

My brother's eye was painted
clear in family portraits.

She thrust upwards and screamed .
Her cat woke, leapt off the windowsill,
and broke a vase containing dried Latvian flowers.

      Gin-weary, temple on the pane,
      I watch the props begin to shake
      The sunlight . As we climb, the plane

And still there is no season's story told
by words, expressive, eager to explain;
no winter's tale will pass from mouth to mind;