red and white, the lake house
cleaning the cupboard and kitchen. she intent ordering her room
it's flattened, quieter, scented, so much of that color, blown down
she says, did i used to be like this?
storing plates
outside, it's there
it was darker. light through west window onto the table.
supper cooking. a cabbage with a cut face. crushed tinfoil.
she sits beside me to say, how does that patch of wall look
to you? the wall's luminous. i take care, thinking it will
swarm with lights if i give it time
the house from outside the spruce. one room lit, onto
the door open, red. a person moves through the door. the
milky way continues down the sides of the poplars. we go
for water. she throws the pail. we can't speak
it was a thursday evening late in the fall of the year.
the weather was wild and rough outside, and it was cruelly
dark. the rain fell and the winds blew until the walls of
the cottage shook. there they all sat around the fire
busy with this thing and that. just then, all at once,
something gave three taps at the window pane
she's alone in the room at recess. what are you reading/
she shows the cover
the white bear's gentle expression looking around the
door to where the girl sits by the fire
she grasps her bundle with one hand, and the bear's neck-ridge
with the other. the bear walks quickly forward. they
leave the forest she knows, trails her father disappeared
by. she looks around. her legs are warm in the bear's
fur, her arms cold in the shawl. sunset between the
trees, darkening. and then they come to the steep hill
for one thing she wished to know: who it was who came in
the night and slept in her room
going to the school - into the corridor - on the steps -
wind and sun, reflection flies as the door opens - the
children rush out - i'm shy in flood - seeing the faces
looking, delight, in full focus of curiosity - whose car is
that - fred's children i can see are proud to know - it's
hers - a pelting, voices - how was the space - failing,
recovering, afraid, delighted, that is liking them,
liked - they run to the buses
round the lake listening to swans. on the east side tread on
mint. soft track. the length of the field and the house's
isle. short walk and a great distance, moon's through
gabble blabber they're excited
first unlocated, then suddenly above, in front, beats,
scrapes, whistles. heavy bodies, the crooked line
suddenly enlarged. and gone. planing, braking, water
and wing beats. cold flash
eat many muffins. go to test the camera. think of filming
and not knowing the shape, small things
swans gone. lake white
a new thing: ice i'm standing on with the camera. then --
when I look up HWHunnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnng
seems to run straight across the lake from here to there,
at the same time the shiver underfoot seems to arrive from
there to here. at the same time i jump ready to leave
can't see a crack. nothing has changed. sense of the
distance to the other shore. a membrane, in some way i
don't understand, whipped once, vibrated minutely. because
of a small weight at one edge
ice fog. frost feather tufts. one swan left behind,
sitting still on the ice as if floating, quiet movements
turning its head
worked to clear some papers
they're at the table in the garden, plucking chickens
cutting fat poplar in the ditch. breaking fallen trees out
of the branches of standing trees, dragging them out
she said she didn't feel anything the way she used to
the comedy of our two cars in the ditch at the corner
a warm wind. all night with the door open. like moon
day. roar from the poplar screen, the spruce violent
hatred after loving days. a hot day. smoke blew down
bedlam just starts to sound in the back room. I silence it
she said make a computer out of molecules. the air is
acceleration. can mind move fast enough. from air to
something slower, accelerate
into making. where is making made. in the bits
acceleration said j: in metamorphosis, by desire and
conflict. sang how in paradiso she corrects his geometry
chainsaw at the edge of a clean field. in the windrow know
the balance of every log stacked on log. bitter taste:
poplar
she sits on a cut round facing west. light from under
cloud ceiling. the shadows are turquoise laid on rimed
earth. feeling of an edge. brush wall and then west to
infinity, yellow open sea
brief daylight. how to use it. there's having to go
out for wood. picking a box of kindling twigs. chopping
enough for a day
confused bread
it's been thirty-five, forty, below
under disorder pulling up covers, the rosy face with real
eyes and such a smile, talking, rapture and lasciviousness,
as if holding something in itself, open as if the to the air
of the room. has it been the natural christmas today?
in bed till sunset then feasting on fried rice. let's not
do any cooking work today
walking under the stars. crunch. moon seeming to be visibly
filling. crossing the lake to it, kicked snow singing on
the crust
|