Poem (External Scene)

The field blank in snow. But I mean this page.

Now print mars the surface to make surface

Seen. Sheen only error brings. Perfect rage

So the sun rises. Rage is your slow practice

That makes of every day another day

In whose gathering promise the shy sparrows

Shiver instead of sing. I want to go away.

See these footsteps? These black shapes in the snow?

If there is a word for them, it’s no word

I know. Pursuit?, no. Proof?, no. Don’t call it fear.

Could I cross this white sheet if I were coward,

Edge to edge, margin to margin, never

Referring to anything outside itself?—

Stop that. Stop pointing to the photo on the shelf.