winter, ’79.

snowing in Flagstaff.

plows can’t pull through the wet white sea.

citizens now realize the six month nighttime.

the western winds have shifted.

3:00 AM he paces the floor, caged,

recounting backeast birthday presents:

post cards, address books, a roll of stamps.

outside the parted curtains,

a streetlight exposes the blizzard like a stripper.

the porchlight beckons like a Yves Klein fire painting.

he quickly tries to think in French.

distant, she lies across their frigid bed somewhere.

a more profound destiny awaiting him.

5:00 AM the ambient voices of strangers return,

shadows chained onto cave walls.

he remains hostage,

homeless, excised,

and perpetually adrift

with any hint of daylight fading,

any point of reference numb, forsaken.

1980

Bisbee