Stillness, and: Driving Across the Bridge, and: Snow Falling

Stillness

In the gap between
it is cold and white -
snow is falling,
sticking to the legs
of the lawn chairs
like thick white socks,
layering the cast iron
arms of the chairs
then it stops;
nothing moves
that has not already moved:
bird tracks in snow,
hoof prints of deer
looping the pines
and a lingering
coldness inside me -
each cloven hoof print -
the perfect halves,
the gap between
the opposites
inside me -
today, the gap
between.

Driving Across the Bridge

The pavement slides
beneath my wheels like breath.

I am driving across this bridge
imagining the steel girders

above me are your ribs,
and the slow pulse

of the broken yellow line
is your pulse, and the dull

gray of the sky -
the color of the hospital ceiling.

I wonder if what I am seeing
is at all like what you see:

fog on a river, fog on the shore,
the red of a lighthouse fading,

windows, shingles
blending into white -

just the outline of the lighthouse,
the slender border

between it and everything,
all I can see,

just the faintest
outlines in fog.

Snow Falling

Look at the snow
as something shattered,
falling - one idea
broken into all its parts -
its phrases, its words -
each word as it has sounded
within your life:
all the places
where it was uttered:
the colors in all
the different rooms,
whether the air was warm,
or it was raining -
all of these places
shattered, falling
like flakes -
each word
and its lives within
your life, and in
the entire world
of speech, anyone's
speech - one idea
as snow
falling.