Snow, Snakes, Cakes: Or, My College Daze In Montreal In this space we were given Time uncoiled like a snake. Winter Pythons drank Tea in fancy Hotel restaurant. Red carpets shone As we passed by, and looked in. On our random walks, We’d pass by flickering Streetlights, out in the cold, Hand in hand. Like a sparrow, You fit in the palm of my hand. At home, glistening acid-blue light From the TV Squandered our room. You held me there, to the idea. In my philosophy course I struggled With a rope, climbing it As if in gym class When I was in fifth grade. Get to the top And look down, and then you understand. In books with ages in them, thin Epochs of rice paper appearing And disappearing, I read of being. Hegel spoke vaguely of the notion That oscillated, but what I mean To hold onto Is that it is important, whatever It is. I felt there was a backing To reality and it was as palpable As drywall. We can cling as we disappear. I know where we are, but why? In any case, We were happy, But did not know it. Our cat Was the color of daffodils, and she liked butter And muffin wrappers. Flowers were always about to bloom Gaudy and pink as old paintings Of peonies. The arrows, poison-tipped, Came through the snow As I waited by the bus stop, Across the street from our house When I left for the day. I had school. You were always home, painting An abstract painting the color Of a saint’s robes. I was out there, Shivering, among the city. Just Because it’s a city doesn’t mean The ancient hunter-green hunter isn’t out There somewhere. Concrete Overpasses can be his throng of birches. He flits in and out of the boughs Of graffiti. His eyes are hawks’ gold. His quiver is silver tungsten. He moves in snow-gray circles of disguise. He comes to you as a stranger, Asking directions or the time of day. Only later did those arrows Pierce my heart and gushingly Bleed their slick poison onto my ruled Notebooks. I sat, made of soft Marble, in Café Vienne, Writing haiku busted open. The moon In daytime in the sapphire sky wandered. There are hunters, Yes, and there are also raccoons In the city Where the heavens come down And angels move among us along With other mythical sky-creatures, And they’re seeking us, and they’re also Looking for corn or crackers. I had to watch out for all these things: The hunters, the raccoons, and you. Meanwhile, I was hunting Down poetry. I used what was around For inspiration. The vanilla Cakes bled ruby strawberries In their glass case, In marble-tabled Café Vienne Where the chandelier made of ice, Black, mauve, and cast A sapphire aftertaste of light. The cake display Was backed by a mirror on all sides. Cakes reflected cakes And it was icing, ad infinitum. If you’ve ever been wedged like cake Between mirrors in Café Vienne, You know what I mean by ricochet Pink sugar. So much sweetness, but I was thin, Then, and too weight-conscious To have dessert like a metaphor. There was always you. The sparrows outside in the cold Came in and pierced Their own flight as I sighed And they made it to the other side. The fact that there was another side To this poetry writing of snow and cake Comforted me, as if I were surrounded By crowds of citizens who did the right Thing. I was happy, then, knowing That elsewhere was thriving, Impossible place as it was. On the outer limits of the cosmos, Birds exist, and wheel in dull pink planetary zones Of light. Fog rolls in, there, as if off The sea, in the harbor of a pale city. A place inside me, wrapped In cloud. A place after the universe ends Shimmers with stardust. It looks like the snow Coming down deceptively peacefully, Like powder on this space we were given.
Posted on: Wed, 19 Jun 2013 17:29:26 +0000
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