That is to say, I’m learning to live
In Winter, willow-plumed
Under ripples of pond velvet
And dressed in cold throughout.
I sleep by the rattling boiler,
Speak through jagged hands in the park.
Such a raw time, where the sky is close
And everything else so far away –
So I make soup out of heavy feeling,
Gather shells and friends for warmth
In a possessive sort of way
Where the sun won’t find me, could not.
What I mean is, there are maps of the body
Known by Winter, along its window rivers
Where the edges of memory sharpen
And so are precious – remember
To live is to be a mirrored thing,
A running of dogs, a cry of voices
Ringing in silver and salt water,
Breathing between dreams.
There are fig trees and factories 