All night I dreamed of my home, of the roads that are so long and straight they die in the middle— among the spines of elderly weeds on either side, among the dead cats, the ants who are all eyes, the suitcase thrown open, sprouting failures. 2.
And this evening in the garden I find the winter inside a snail shell, rigid and cool, a little stubborn temple, its one visitor gone. 3.
If there were messages or signs,
I might hear now a voice tell me to walk forever, to ask the mold for pardon, and one by one I would hear out my sins, hear they are not important—that I am part of this rain drumming its long fingers, and of the roadside stone refusing to blink, and of the coyote nailed to the fence with its long grin.
And when there are no messages the dead lie still— their hands crossed so strangely like knives and forks after supper. 4.
I stay up late listening.
My feet tap the floor, they begin a tiny dance which will outlive me.
They turn away from this poem.
It is almost Spring.
