69

Nothing for music. No thing. Music for
a plain unmarked field of snow. No thing
signs for nothing. Think again. Abominable
snow, making me cold. Here from the first,
site of the thirst as if the longest night
was someplace we remembered, from the earliest
of our remembered dreams, as home. Dark
as home; homely dark. Das nachts, das nichts--
the blank drawn large, brought back
to its lack of itself. The turn of the loop,
trick of the tail turning back. Transistor light:
I am here. I am still here. I’m waiting,
I’m on the step, my foot’s at your door.
There’s something outside your room.
My foot at your door. The music adds something
to the field of snow. Yes, I’m restless
I can’t say about what. Yes, I’m uneasy,
I'm not sure about what. Maybe it’s the
nothing, the something not worth worrying about
that keeps you up at night. While the bull’s eye
turns. The mirror says that being's in the eye.
She could be right with her silver mirrortain tongue.
Me, I’m not so sure. She could equally lie. I see
the eye before the tongue. And the snow outside.
The plain unmarked field of snow.