So Long Ago Consigned

We wait on transformation albeit mostly alone.

The distance grows voluble, full, but still without meaning. 

Flakes of snow rise off the pasture, mica-bright in the cold, swirling and dissipating in brief gusts of icy wind.

This is my heart. This is not my heart, but another heart, or not a heart at all.

How we square-danced on the second floor of the library, three hours in early spring (lilac reached the window) and later learned that many of the couples swung in other ways too, and opted not to return.

Exposed beams strewn with dust. Dogs crying out in my dreams. 

A little after six a.m. I pause by the hemlocks and ornamental birch, face Venus and piss, stretching as I do, exhaling happily, briefly unalarmed by the proximity of so much evil and dissembly in the world to which I was long ago consigned.

Fixing radios. Polishing crystals with two kinds of cloth. Drinking my one coke through a straw while he guzzled beer after beer, rarely talking but when he did, doing so in that clipped voice that always intrigued me, as if something had been stolen from him once and bitterness at the loss had done something to his throat. 

Gutted bucks hanging on racks in the side yard. Steam rising from puddles of pig blood which didn't - but seemed they ought to - steam. 

Always ask: where did this begin?

What is another word for a fatal blend of misunderstanding and misidentification? 

Night does not "fall" it simply appears all around as the light grows dim. 

These eyes eying unspoken desires. Ragged delights?

Well, deconstructions really, pouring out of what cannot help but pour itself out, over and over and over.