LITMIR.BIZ

       Thaw

      All afternoon police unearth

      the dead from roadside drifts of snow.

      It happens like this every spring:

      a passing motorist reports

      dark tint inside a melting pile

      or catches sunlight glinting off

      a well-sewn button or a shoe.

      Perhaps a hand, a bud unbloomed,

      extends there toward imagined help.

      Found are those whose orbit slipped

      some imperceptible degree

      before we ever thought them lost.

      We watched a drifter stagger through

      three lanes of traffic, arms asway

      as if conducting some rush hour

      motet his ears alone could hear.

      He waved. I almost waved right back.

      In lilac light the cruisers flashed

      against the dusk. Someone dug.

      Someone else rerouted cars.

      We drove directly home to lie

      together side by side, converse

      about these newly exhumed dead.

      You fear, I know, our daughter woke

      mid-fight to hear about our own

      dissolving dreams, this falling out of,

      into love. The dead are neutral ground

      and so, exhausted, spent, to them

      we steer our words. It’s almost prayer.

      Tonight they’ll rise from deep inside

      of me as, half-asleep, I turn

      and slip my hand in yours. But first,

      so that my touch won’t startle you,

      won’t wake you from unquiet dreams,

      I’ll hold my hand out to the night

      and let it grow a little cold.