The wind tugs at the loose treeline.
Dark skiers push through fog—
the snow adjusts its many shrouds
while blind sled dogs awaken beside the river.
NAS FUT 1012.0 ↓ 31.5. The birches
slice a dull sun.
Laura said it must be a vagina of cabbage
with an army of white ants.
The postman in knee socks
wears an aluminum-foil hat
over his long red locks.
The bats are leaving their caves
and with some haste we have discovered early evening.
They wear the clever hats
of the Dog Star, of vehrmacht palettes,
not, mind you,
the German officers, but the bears
who are the visitors!
Poincaré sits in the turning dark
of the stairwell
folded in a thin nightshirt
eating a dry husk of carp, mostly
all huge brass head, eyes
with declining bones like a harp.
An influenza is in the suburbs.
She said in the dark church kitchen
that the moon was on her
and so she put her last clean sock up inside her,
that she slept last night
in an automobile, was sober
but wouldn't be much longer,
that the fires choked her
the smoke, she thought, was greasy
and intolerable like Phoenix itself.
The filling station like a blue can
of sardines edged with rose granite,
rope and wooden ore buckets
at the high-water nest of burning grass
in the baking mud of the palo verde.
All of the crabshacks are burning,
gulls are circling
the open crates of avocados in the snow
even the earth's gravity.
This must be the judgment.
The sun broke through…
I read aloud on the balcony
your poem for the 'two wives'…
It is both the depth of field and snow
that have shortened the telephone poles
by half or more.