Everything's changed for the best–
how quivering and fierce we were,
there snowbound together,
simmering like wasps
in our tent of books!
Poor ghost, old love, speak
with your old voice
of flaming insight
that kept us awake
all
night.
In one bed and .apart,
we heard the plow
groaning up
hill-
a red light, then a blue,
as
it
tossed off the snow
to the side of the road.
WATER
It was a Maine lobster town–
each morning boatloads of hands
pushed off for granite
quarries on the islands,
and left dozens of bleak
white frame houses stuck
like oyster shells
on a
hill
of rock,
and below us, the sea lapped
the raw little match-stick
mazes of a weir,
where the fish for bait were trapped.
