All right we can’t repeat the past
don’t want to bones are in the grass

Here is a common heresy:
Things are Bleak.

Bliss. Sits bright and bolt and lightening on the pillows
in the bed. The Maharishi said on days
like this one never minds. I’m fond, though, of the wheedle

It’s the rhythm and small plosive bombs in the mouth,
on the lips of the whisperer (me) who would like
in the best of all possible worlds to rhyme

another cold and golden fall
and knowledge as to how to leave

You waited at the station entrance.
I was late. My hair had turned gray
but there you were, all the snow gone,
all the leaves blown, the leopard sun
having leapt across a life never lived.

A yacht at night strung with lights on the black
tide rolls to the rhythm of a trio playing
"Waltz for Debbie." The Milky Way looks on

there was blue smoke    beyond the house a field
at day’s end    slow darkening
in the tall corn    our children scurried
invisible in the maze    voices absorbed  
by evening’s onset    their voices echo

And we were convinced in our ecstasy
that our father was eating us.

To survive, Siberia, or to survive Siberia:
neither seems possible. So cold, so boundless,
so wild there are parts as yet unnamed.