Words That Burn

In the Winter of This Climate, by Mark Wunderlich (1968-)

When I dream it is of sheep

tangled in the marsh, their calls

growing faint and the light failing

 

or winter’s handful of piano notes

against the highway’s salt hiss.

Nothing stays at home forever.

 

This is the house I go back to,

long since torn down

and your footsteps walking the same five rooms

 

the day the men were frozen in their boats

when the weather changed

and a storm blew in from the east.

 

There is the sky filling with the same dim stars,

the night birds fanning in the tree’s icy ribs

and you knee-deep in the river’s motion

 

hand cupped to your head

an upturned hand filling with rapid blood

your voice loose of its short tether, saying

 

Do you hear it?  Do you hear what I’m trying to say?