Consider the long work of the men of industry:

these steps
carved with
tools of stone,
bronze. iron,
steel;

the rails alongside
carved from wood
with tools of stone, 
bronze, iron,
steel;

all the fires
used to forge 
the tools,

all fueled
with wood peat
coal and oil of whale
shale and the blackened
deep raised from beneath
our feet.

They’ve been building for so long.

How much higher 
does the monument
have to tower
over the stench
for them to be able
to stand on top,
breathe deep of the smoke
and carnage below, 
and call it good?

Snow tomorrow,
not first snow but
first plowable depth.

At some point tomorrow
you’ll be seated,
chin in hand, 

trying to guess
how bad the roads are
while regretting

unpurchased hot cocoa 
that would have made
for complete comfort

and safety in the living room
from which you watch 
a world slowly changing.

As things disappear into 
humps under snow
you will shake your head

at unprepared cars
slipping down hills
and around corners,

and you will feel again
the ancient fear:
what of everything I most love

will not reemerge
when this snow is gone,
when the winter is gone?

measuring my weeks

sifting through days
as if they were
lumps in a sugar bowl

examining the texture
of each rock
of particulate sweetness
hoping for a spoonful
to cure what ails me

selflessness
is so sour

not that I would know that
except in theory

as I am so offensive
and rank with my
own decades of
misguided self care

nothing tastes sweet

hidden at my core 
is a small, dim light
what you see is just my shell
going through the motions

everything that looks sincere
as well as
everything that looks
faked or false

everything that seems solid or fluid
everything that seems remotely static
that shows I’m settled for life
into the nest of my identity

every cuddly blink
all the sighs and furtive glances
at thighs and backsides
all the human moves through the fair

all that action and lust
it’s all just
a package of motions
I’m going through

every rage at insult real or imagined
every dangled bait to draw attack
every sneer and morseled-out hateful offering
to war-doctors and high priests of the blinding

just going through the motions
so the world won’t notice
the dead lamp within
still stale and cold

everything I do out here
is motion — is lies
masturbatory once
now tedious hideous and old

dim light within like
a salt lamp rimed with dust
I tried to shine brightly once
but failed and started this pantomime

now and then thinking
my motions have become me
and I them
I’ve begun to forget my light 

it remains within 
and continues to dim 
but now and then it flares
I cannot predict or explain when

but when it does happen
I stop moving for a short time
and try to remember which I am 
the shadows of my motions or the light