Winter arrives with the whipping trees bare
Of their whipping but not the whip’s ring.
Everything goes on forever—my shadow
Yanking me through the drift and ramble of snow
Long after leaning against the threshold
Of the door, sliding into the quiet angers
Of this house, the shadow of the roses
On the table, the train ride, my finger in the book
Where small calves in Arkansas stare
At a passing train, and behind them, the whipping
Tree, the book says, my finger trailing
A dark spot on the rose, the fire on the rails
To keep them from freezing still phrased,
Burning the rails. Everything here ends.
Snow, the fire lashing the rails, and the snow
Lashing my shadow at the door asking
To be let in, the night hawk turning the night
Beyond snow, into the future. Never
Graduate beyond the wisdom of the stone.
Stone at the window, I watch the snow
Talk of itself. It could go on forever
Explaining the death of things, the fevers,
Calves, rails, trees it swallows. Burns.
The whipping tree bare of their whipping
But not the body’s ring, my finger still
Coffined between the pages of the book
Although no longer in the book, the snow,
The snow rattling last year’s leaves. The rose.
My shadow at the window, in the glass,
Withers in my turning to look at the door,
My shadow coming in smelling of fire.
Everything ends in the service of shadow.
Everything goes on in the service of shadow.
And in between, well, Baby, that’s for you.