She has the stepchild of cancers
circling her with its long white arms:
this is chance, this misfortune.
tall, raised in Europe, one shoulder hiked, will she slip over the horizon
like a negative off a table in the darkroom?
A cipher off the screen?
Or will she be alive a year from now, carrying her portable oxygen like a fragile violet in a glass?
My perpetual dream of snow blindout blizzards
whiting lamp posts & landscapes.
plus the lambs frost coating eyelashes.
They cannot save her she's only forty-one.
Childhood bleakness assaults me:
So many years spent trying to get away
crawling up to the charred black-red brick wall
at night touching push-dials the past's buttons
white-oak whorled barbed wire birds
plunged into greiving
snow hoods the panic-button while all the while we ought to have been
cherishing the ability to pull back from the world.