Remembrance resembles immortality;
Forgetting, a kind of hell.
Your poetry resembles diary,
without technique,
and will not be memorable
to a stranger—who isn’t bad
because she doesn’t remember you.
Your speech doesn’t speak.
My January walk is freakishly warm.
I can actually smell the winter land.
Life plays in the water.
The future frolics on the sand.
There are clouds and wind;
the weather is going to change.
But now the whole world
feels beautiful and strange.
I’m thinking today (I don’t know why)
how false words are. Language isn’t me
even though I think in language
and write poetry.
Today’s wind is fresh and rotten.
There are seasons within seasons—
hardly forgotten the cold Christmas night.
I wept pleasantly to “It’s A Wonderful Life”—
sorrow rendered artfully
makes the winter of sorrow almost fun.
But on this warm winter’s day
I whisper to myself,
“Winter, winter, winter!
Give me the sun.”