You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now the snow
is grown, the different snows,
Too deep to clear them away!
Li T’ai Po
Two weeks ago,
out shoveling snow, I saw the moon
was over
my right
shoulder
full and quiet. And not a cloud not one cloud. She is
half herself
today
and at this
point
in the day (not
even
four a.m.) she’d/we’d
be
nearly face to
face—I’d like to,
bare handed,
reach out into the wind chill
of minus
thirteen
and caress what
cheek
at this
distance
lays and lays
against me. Instead
it’s snow cold
as Manitoba
cold as half
way through
the race—
she’s so much like milk
like a mother undone
from the shoulder to the
hip
leaning
over the crib
of the world to pick
up the fisted baby and lift her,
while
under, the road out is covered
with snow, and the howl of coming morning
is a percussion and a trumpet
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