Time passes heavily for me,
like a man who looks perpetually over his shoulder.
I am reading Hobbes: “a well ordered mind
knows the difference between dream and waking”--
but I myself no longer know it.
Order is a man who, setting out,
knows the route of his return.

February:
a woman who holds her hips as she walks.
Knowledge of myself drapes me, a gauze
rustling and listing in wind,
a wet puff of snow
that trembles off the bough.