It’s snowing in Texas.

 

I didn’t see snow

until I was twelve.

That too

was a confused

 

snowfall in June.

Were things wrong

even then, or

was it, as I assumed,

 

magic? Cecilia

is calling from

California. I tell her

 

I’ve been thinking

about temporality

in her poems. The clips,

breaks,

 

about doom,

the future, a bad fuck

and never, never

“making love.”

 

Couples only fuck,

gently or

ferociously, quietly

or with volume.

 

I tell her

everyone that speaks

through her, whispers

angrily, painfully –

 

Say to her, because

I must, I’m in love.

She tells me,

Darling, I’m in love.

 

Though not with

each other, but also,

yes, of course,

with each other.

 

It’s not snow

so much as ice

that beats

at the glass backdoors,

 

but nothing

sticks to the earth

where the warm

dirt soaks,

 

gathers the cold,

thaws it, melts

& consumes the ice

that covers love, or

 

wraps it

in metaphor

or aphorism,

meditation –

 

Poets know the earth

& sky fuck, & fuck

often, too often

one might think. Wrapped

 

in each other, blind

to the havoc

their love creates.

Who is Sada Abe

 

in this realm

of pure sensuality,

of water absorbed

in the dry earth?

 

Of water drowning

us? Will the ground

ever be soaked

again? I suppose

 

earth, sky, moon, sun,

all our creations,

these are Sada –

delicate humans, Ishida.

 

I recall Cecilia’s line,

the world will

always become

lovers.

 

She reminds me, I never

said those words.

But thank you

for thinking of me.