***

He is a lake; moves
as if time compelled him to write
sonnets every hour and
therefore openly scratches
the surfaces of dressers
so as to ask questions of
the wood. He does not close his eyes.

In a rainstorm, he is the warm
blanket around frantic loss, he is
the fingers that stroke his beloved's hair,
the first pair of glasses
that wave a flag of victory
in the face of lost sight.

He is night, late, and reaches
out at birch tree branches
and calls them winter.
He is a call. He is winter.
He is winter. He is winter.