Winter

One winter, I became very quiet

and saw my life. It was February

and outside in the city streets,

snow fell but would not collect.

I bought snapdragons and thistle,

got some discount peach roses

that smelled off. I split them

between vases and moved

the bouquets from room to room

while a violin solo rang out.

My throat hurt. My tonsils grew

blubbery like two fat snails,

kissing in a slow arc.

A detective show played.

I wanted a cigarette

and Jimmy Stewart in my bed.

Nightly, I dreamt of epileptic

Dostoevsky in Siberia with only

the New Testament to read

and thought of that mock execution

from which he never recovered.

Four years he spent there

in the dead cold. I have

two cats in New York

and not so much loneliness.

Still, I prepare for their deaths,

but who knows, I may go first.

Sorry, but I’m like this in winter.

My composure an evergreen with

the settled world that keeps settling.

I trek the season.

I arrange the dance of blooms,

room to room, and keep

my small perimeter fed and alive.

We tread to March

like soldiers, like sailors tossed

into navy tides, into

wave white, and who,

spotting land, at last,

grow gills at its sight.