My Winter

Who says
horizons separate earth|sky?
A horizon divorced me from my self
with a faultline so thin something
           must confine its curvature
                    for MY perception:

                    (jigsaw pieces) (leaves of paper) (lips)

Like – folds.
Like – creases.
There it is.
Tinfoil and its
aluminum counterpart: an absence
in disguise,
If I’d been protected by this
unpatented derision.
[I know not because
I wasn’t always so
distracted.]

On the phone this morning my mother asks
TELL ME AGAIN WHAT YOU’RE WRITING?
On paper this morning the other me asks
WRITE ME AGAIN WHAT YOU’RE TELLING?

I can’t tell what I don’t know.
Statues can’t see what they feel under their
snow cloches and
smock-frocks but the
winter still changes them.

It’s
Irrevocable.

I suppose I should review the syllabi
they gave me when I learned to speak – there are some things I’m
supposed to say
before I blend the horizons and join
the great congregational escape
from sin and the English language,
where “the same” is really a noun (and
logically an object
of parasitic existence)
no intrinsic identity, no
essence except it’s name and I say
think
but the truth is always there.
The truth is always there and I surround myself with
concentric circles
and things that blink while they’re sleeping,
stamp words over abstractions like
indefatigable hoofbeats
in a race against
space.
Meanwhile, what I call my
horizon
is merely wire stretched between my poles,
drooping under the weight of too many miracles perched like
sparrows on the line
of what I
impudently
call

…mine.