I want to see Hudson covered in snow because it does want snow. 

New England of my eternally returning instinct towards a

pillowcase and hearth kind of loveliness. The train tracks here

would have sunken trails of what your dad called ‘snow snakes’

when you were a rich child in thick skis. Map marks for dogged following
down a mountain. Tromping over ragged red leash pieces and fibrous
escaped strands, veins letting onto a whitened January Main St. I’m in
the capital of light bulbs and other antique glasses, store windows. Those
do little good in a snowstorm, a yellow cast on aloneness. Still warming to
look at and sometimes turn into. Sometimes you do have to turn into

the hottest part. Or in the sweltering August, I’m like “Imagine self in
the tundra. Visualize.” What you never knew about me: in a flood,

I’m the silt underneath the abrupt and unplanned rivers. My car in a

lumpen stash, rock salt, and my New Year’s resignation is “pull me through
the coma of February on a green sled.” Moved by greater forces. The day
that we piled coats on each other and took the rusted trains to bolt through
the tunnels eating preserved cherries to stay joyous out to Harvard. I’m

less moved by the Rothkos. More moved by the Rebecca Horn finger gloves
that at one time she really wore on her fingers, she touched hardnesses

and couldn’t feel them but they were moved by her. I want to be with her

in a field and watch her touch rocks, roots, unrecycled plastics over and over
until she wears them down to small and then to nothing. Want to see

what isn’t nature do that.