Spring 1989 • Vol. XI No. 2 PoetryApril 1, 1989 |

No Matter the Weather

Ice claims everything in sight and burns, returning to us light shed by rooms we had gathered in to drink and discuss what we can and cannot get away with. Wood burns to warm the rooms. Once in them we were left without words for what makes us who we are: the way we touch when we are breathing just right, the way your back's expanse moves me when you turn away after love. Like the patient movement of landscape as it comes down white to frozen water: a river, and under ice the current. Things continue no matter the weather. We have followed our hearts to the river and can hear the laughter of our guests from where we stand on ice and discuss what lies in the distance. It's safe. We tell ourselves it must be, looking at tracks clear in the dusting of snow, thinking of the first to cross after the storm. How far the other side must have been: as far as anything we desire, as far as the distance between us formed of the cold sum of our arguments. After we cross back over the expanse

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