|on the mountains of which my poems often speak. including the one on this blog.|
i'm about to read it.
i wrote this weird little piece, about christmas of all awful subjects for a poem, and was inspired by sister stein.
hope it's something.
if not, it's something.
|one of the most important works.|
setting off 2013 from merry christmas chapter 22
was it starry? stilly? were clouds smoky, low, or thick were we breathing burdened air particulates from wood smoke & car exhaust? was a stave of psalmody bouncing between the walls of our mountains, here on the wasatch front, here in our valley of valleys? was our basin filled with a hymn from some solo from some lit bungalow near the lake? were the feet of the soloist beautiful? was it christmas day or right before? were we anticipating or regretting? were we disappointed yet? were we recalling pleasant havens—and glades eternally vernal—fruit & mead?
i recall that it was not altogether unpleasant to be so cold. deer foraging in grassy starry patches down the meadow of locust lane & children donned velvets & fowls & beasts laid upon the table for us, burnished, roasted (((flowers were continuing on the mountain and low the valley without our attentions))) & the families & bigger families still in the concentric way of families in private beauty places & so on & so on & we thought some one would break us & so on & we searched for a break we never found & so it was as it were and all