In the winter we sat nestled together beneath blankets and brandy, watching the icicles for and we watched, just as each of us, the year cool and close and creep back inside of itself.  The snow fell, covering the green, darkening the greys with its brightness and softening the world with its transient persistence.

In the summer I boarded the train with a new passport to feel warmth of the same sun through different atmospheres.  A bag and a book and the promise new things I had not seen, and would not come to know then, followed me in my solitude.  The cigarettes would speak to of loneliness through my linen pocket and the matches spoke of autonomy.

In the fall I sat at a cafe positing the possibility of returning home to see what had occured and people i had missed. The world turns and as I write in lampglow they lay in the sun. To return, too, is a movement forward.  To fill a page with words with a head full of wine and a lung full of smoke is a thing as natural as breathing.  . . .I will not eat with other men nor women, and to keep my disjointed thought to myself I will go all the way back.

In the spring i went back, as far as I could remember, back to the burning hills and the acrid live oaks thirsting in the valleys.   The people i had know there had fled or burnt away and back at the beginning, as in the end, I was alone.
The snow fell today, closing the sky and the year up like a storefront. And like a little tear the melt climbs down a stair, clinging to the end. Ice melts, runs down as water and moves back to solid in a different place. Thawing and melting creeping from point to point like a function in meditation with a series. Icicle, icicle where are you flowing, down to the earth without any knowing what motives or goings on your way back to snowing gone with the sunlight or song of slow morning.


Touring a country in a golden spring--variation from my spring--very hearty and finely sown as wool or leather or down;   in a train through the country where the people watch me as they watch strangers kissing thier women and craddeling their babies, I watch back as a stranger searching for smiles or hospitality or the wonders of newness.