Bright snow, white sheeted, winter drifted, lies
Beyond the glass on the other side of the mind
Where it is shining wet on rail track, cold street,
And unshoveled walk. Inside this room, ice
Hardens in the hard body of my lover and friend
Who, by his own hand, died, out of reach last night.
Not last night. I had to go back many years to find
His death, when I learned that a body has vacant eyes
And dead flesh is solid, heavy, and gray as granite,
Laid rigid on the bed. The room is blind.
The ceiling presses inward. The rugs rise.
The woodwork bends where the papered walls meet.
No sheen from the snow blazing outside could pass
Into that closed room to lighten it, where he lay
And I stood, wet booted, chapped raw at the wrists, my sorrow
Caught in breathy sobs over him. That loss
These many years have never equaled. Snow
Lies bright on the walls of winter. It is still that day.