POEMS
And surrender at last
the will to struggle
in the ecstatic nirvana
of the shrilling cold . . .
snow thickens like memory,
mummy·wound, until the night
becomes a dream of itself,
and the self dissolves.
WAITING AT THE DECEMBER BRIDGE
I came into this year drunken with hope.
As the end draws near, I see so much undone,
and see myself grown lonely on the road.
Now it is December, and I wait at the bridge
spanning the canal. A catharsis of small snow
shifts like last year's vagary of peace, and is
diffused with a fine gesture of self.destruction
upon the black and muddy water.
Beyond the bridge, decision takes another step.
Houses are there, like any other, yet they seem
unreal, too, and slightly shabby in the fog.
I have seen all this before, perhaps in a dream
of violence when someone struck progress
from the clock, and time became
a child watching young men parade.
Somewhere, tonight was always waiting, lying
in wait, prepared to leap, anxious to strike,
yet came the way disaster often comes, modest,
polite about the casual accident, apologetic;
and a small neglect is transposed to war.
Some know it. There are some who, seldom
deceived, know that violence can come from
merely strolling in the park, until at last
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