Vision crowded with mass
—the pit he’d kicked in
the snow behind their untreated log cabin so shallow
he was shitting
on himself— skin too numb to notice,
was this one of the welcome numbs—White
Sallee copse too young to shield him
(had the window fog been cut)
from her, in that Norwegian wool
sweater of his she had on
and nothing else, mineral openness
of what they’d drifted downstream in, naked,
after the last thaw.
(They’d found the outhouse
abused, vengeful: racked
magazines white as though never inked;
clapboard gaps like
frost—crystallizing the cobwebs.
On balance, unusable.)
If I could live every moment with a blistering winter wind on my face
Hairy, maladapted, numb
at its office. With winter he imagined breaking
fresh bread—and the crumb steam
went to ground, to ice, the taste of crust. Of salt.
He felt lust for himself.
Cabin Near Stirling
1 May 2015