From the back row of the theater, dark,
I am on the move.
No plot can hold me. I am in barns. At night.
Kerosene hums and I once saw a ghost owl white
Swoop by the headlights of my car, roads along winter fields.
Living in New York, I dreamed of two-story buildings,
Ranch homes, parking spaces. I dreamed of grass.
Greener grass. Reading a novel, for instance,
And I think about sex. This is not a sexy novel,
I think, far too late, those poor paragraphs,
Well meant, precise, sweep before me like a blizzard
Migration of snowflakes, from one roof to the next,
From mirror to mailbox, powder a lawn chair, and restless,
Move on in a sudden, assault the front door or down the street;
A gang of snow, crystalline hooligans, disguised as cloud.
The same Arctic wind blows back a page, a robe, piece of silk,
And thighs like snowbanks drift higher than my head.
From the back row of the theater, dark,
I am not in the theater. From the front porch of my house,
I am not at home. I am not where I am at any given point.
You should know this; I knew it as a child,
When I would search for solitude I would find myself locked
Arm-in-arm with boon companions, drunk with song.
In the arms of love, I find myself lonesome, lonesome.
No space holds me; no thought grips me so completely.
I keep all my windows open; the cross breezes are maddening.
