1

Dear friend, there is ice in blocks and fragments on the river.
I have tended the river, and the darkness, it has made me tender toward it.

She kept saying, We went swimming in the river, we went swimming in the river of darkness
and there was no river around? Yep, pretty much.

She dug with her hands? She moved in a mist that was gauze? Yep, pretty much.

You are feeling lousy under a bridge in Montpelier, Vermont, Bud Pot Slut

scrawled across a support. Someone has added: =MC2

You have long longed for the key to things. Whatever goes on in the dark, goes on in the dark.
You understand the emptiness of the glazed day. Trees wave
in wind. The train station does not exist. The city does not exist. It’s never, or now.

There was a library, but it burned to the ground. It’s never, or now.
You could not bring yourself to ask for more direction.

We must look at the spring nights, stars like ice chips in black pond.
We must look at spring as imported.

2

No one deserved spring more than
the cat. They were in their yard
beside the road, in the past,
wherever they were it was the past.
They picked up sticks and small
debris that had become loose in the world.
There was not much to remove.
They were thrilled to be out with the cat.
A full month, at least, before tulips seeped
from the earth. Still they called the day good.
The priest arrived and they followed him in.
He blessed the food and bread spread out
on the table, even the candy. They would see, out the window,
the sun in squares and irregular shapes out the window.