She's used to the sound;
Two-twenty in the morning,
him~ guessing that there's some logic,
some reason why the
white snow hangs like a resin
on pulpy greens,
even though its April
and all his winter sweaters
have gone to the cleaners
and come back.
There's
all this time, he thinks.
From
where they sleep,
she can see that
there is some kind~
some poetic astonishment
of human understanding
in the line of his back
as he stands,
backdropped
against the paned glass,
stilled in both body and thought.
Something
beautiful,
dissident almost...
in the arc of his stance,
like movement under sheets,
his neck cocked to the left side,
his wrists banging at his thighs.
A
wrist-banger, they said.
Through
all this
the house fell behind itself,
like an aging athlete, or spring
that's been bullied back
into the ready ground.
Stunted.
Its
good to be home, she thinks,
rolling over in the dreamy blue
of two-twenty's moon~
a strong man's silhouette
dragged across the foot of her bed.
And winter~ God, the hollow sound of the word~
hangs on with nothing but
an unquiet hue,
and taught grace.
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