Half-Opened Eyes

Imagine passing swiftly over snow. Sometimes

there are mounds, channels, folds—an entire

topography blurring beneath us. Other times:

crystalline blankness, exquisite. Infinite cold

potential. Oh, how we hobble, bearing our

journeys, though itineraries or over ages. Each

generation inherits carnage, and antique vehicles

to haul it away. We make, we proceed, anew.

Momentum comes from curls of smoke, glimpses

of the countryside—those willows attending

the slow-moving water, are they bowing under wind,

or light? It’s all the same: the crease where the river

narrows, the sun-fleck on my lashes. The house

abandoned by even the pigeons, and winter,

my cavernous home. Didn’t I see you in a muddy

corral, astride an emaciated horse? Wasn’t that you,

vanishing, reappearing, skipping pebbles on a pond?

A schism has formed between us, and into the slip-

stream a light, a lining, has entered. Now every

absence is swathed, is defined. Is a null set, bright,

is a waxing moon. Is glory, finally contained.