The Melting World

Snow is a letter sent by my father
and in it he writes:
Drop words
And chase after
snow monkeys,
the ones whose tails
are on fire,
still their screams
in thermal waters,
and lull the broken
animals to sleep

inside your arms

underneath the glass
dome of light.

Om.

My own letters write
the hands at night
with blue stars and clouds.
Stick-figure symbols sink
into the flesh of the living

until the earthly body
is swept clean

Hum.

Snow is a letter sent by my mother
and in it she writes:
Open your dead horse blinds
and leave
them alone until it’s time
to sleep.
Watch the Mississippi shimmer
the eye coins of memory,
study its ink,
how it carries slabs of ice as gifts.

Receive.

Snow is a letter inside
an envelope stuffed
with human breath
mixed with the howl of
the Burlington Northern,
nests of elm tree twigs,
goose droppings, wild
grapes, ducks clucking,
white mist hissing
in the roadside ditch,
and the snow is
neither open or sealed.

Our hands decide the task.

Snow is a letter sent by my sister
and in it she writes:
I lived a life for others
tying shoes and washing
towels and shaking rugs
and received a life
seed by seed.
I counted them at night
as the moon befriended me.

My life was lived for others
and I believe those I lived for
understand

why I don’t need anything.

Release.

By the command of the ice ghosts
the evening enters
the hawk’s shadow.

No one hides.

It sees.

Snow is a letter sent by my brother
and in it he writes:
I am a perpetual sinner
whose sins lurk inside my brain
enough to scare me
into never wanting to be alone.
God gave me a blanket, which I love
to wear wherever I go.
It is made of oily purple wool,
furtive whispers, and dripping icicles

and when I drive down the road,
singing in my car,

I dissolve.

Reborn.

Letters drop from the sky,
an unruly flock of salted crows,
blinking in naked trees.
These birds nag and they peck,
insistent, at face and fingers.

They taste of dried chokecherries,

surrendering
is bittersweet.

I eat.

Snow is a letter written by love
and in it it writes:
this and that and there and there
and here and here and here
and here, here, here and here
all is all and is all is
all is closer than the fat cat�s ground
the mouse befriends the grouse’s louse
the wolf loves the porcupine�s red wine

and without logic

we sing much more blissfully.

Freed.

Snow is a letter I write often
and in it I write empty space
since I prefer to dream:
Out from my parted mouth
a jet black river
uncoils,
uncoils,
uncoils,

sluggishly slithers.

Alive.

Snow is a letter inside
an envelope stuffed
with human breath, the footsteps
of small red boots, the windowsill
I stood upon, the tickles
and the torture I received, the guitar,
Jimmy Cracked Corn and Tannebaum,
the Crusher and the Diamond,
the life I lived, the lives of those
nearby who lived alternate destinies.

All is all and is all is
all folded inside ice.
The cat, the louse, the grouse, the squirrel,
the mouse, the wolf, and the porcupine.
Red wine, the crows, the hawk,
the shadow, the ducks and the geese. All star
wrestling, the chokecherries, my hands,
the windowsill, red boots. The funeral,
Ave Marie, O Christmas Tree, the hospitals,
the lock, the cage, the misplaced keys.
The shovel, the blood, the scar, the tombstones,
the dream, the ice, the oak leaves. The dead
horse, salvation, the book, the coins,
and bumblebees. The eyes shut tight,
the ditch, the mist, the grapes, the wine,
the guilt, the pleas. The howls, the rain,
the cornsilk, the stars and clouds. The thunder,
the basement stairs, the furnace room,
the drawings on the wall. The cottonwood,
the elm tree, its seeds, the snowman walks,
and the snow monkeys with their tails on fire
scream and scream and scream.

Open it.

The river stirred and swallowed,
lulled the broken animals

to sleep inside its arms

underneath the glass dome of light.

The river breathes.