Wednesday, August 21, 2024

1160. Snowstorm - Hayden Carruth

 

Everywhere men speak in whispers.

Tumult, many new ghosts. Storm

hurls itself across the valley

and careens from the ridges, swirls

of snow lapsing, leaping, colliding.

Outside on the highway a car

has rolled over the guard rail,

two pickups have stopped, men

stand hunched with their hands

in their pockets. We are looking

from our kitchen windows, we

have called the country sheriff

and the wrecker, we have asked

the men to come in for coffee.

But they have said no, somewhat

sullenly. Earlier we had been speaking

of war in the Persian Gulf, of

all the wars and how armies are

everywhere now, hardly one

peaceful corner remaining

in the world. In strange cities

and in wastelands, on mountains

and on islands, young men and women

in clumsy uniforms and in unease

stand hunched with their hands

in their pockets, or drink

as much beer as they can, or screw

themselves silly––but mostly

they stand hunched with their hands

in their pockets, scornful of the native

people. Now through the snow

the men on the highway are vague

distant figures in a veiled world,

the car’s lights are dim and unclear.

In our eaves and around our dormers

the wind cries and moans with increased

force, and the night comes on.

No comments:

Post a Comment