January, ’79
snowing in Flagstaff.
plows can’t pull through the white sea.
western winds have shifted again,
and another six month nighttime portends.
3:00 AM he paces the floor, penned,
brooding summer’s long distance birthday presents:
post cards, address books, a roll of stamps.
outside the parted curtains
a streetlight exposes the blizzard like a stripper
a porchlight entices like a Yves Klein painting.
he tries thinking in a familiar language.
inside, she lies in their wintry bed
a more profound destiny awaiting.
5:00 AM vague voices of strangers,
shadows chained onto cave walls.
at daybreak he remains hostage,
expatriate,
adrift
with no hint of light,
beyond any point of reference.
1980
Bisbee