Diane Fraser


I'm no longer sure of winter's use & the ice-trapped snow shrunk its
powder-glitter beauty down & held on where & how it could & being a
stoic pioneer in the elements was never glamourous or freeing & really
weighted down our otherwise high-spirited skirts. Snow never tastes
like sex, even in the mountains. I refuse to beg seasonally & prefer
amorous gratitude when you are closer by, though sideways &
metaphorically except where our elbows crash lightly accidental. It is
Yankee to submerge lament but not to wrap it up gorgeously like a gift
hidden. And so here, & there. Two buttons undone is a compromise &
please no stinging windchill wind the linden opens the air and desire
is satisfaction I am counting the days to arrival. My wall is full of
them & now wallpaper organic design multiplying. Christen me: broken
rearranged mosaic epic. And haiku. Laconic iconic misadventuring
mismatched relinquished reins grasp. You are delicately solid &
overfeed my imagination with your potential, which is bound to
disappoint reality. Where there is nothing, all remote possible
architectures are breathtaking & tangible beyond reach. I could settle
for history, but that wouldn't please you or your innovative eye
shunning the past while occasionally fixed on it backwards glancing.
You must find some equilibrium in the back & forth, you must, or how
else could you get on with walking.

Boston 1999 Index