TO SLEEP ON THE WAY HOME

TO SLEEP ON THE WAY HOME

The blizzard enters into this room

making my bones white.

The door to the right hip bone

opens into a howling snowfield.

These spaces between teeth echo 

in dark corridors.

I climb the night sky

where the ice of Saturn circles

for millenia on end.

Chrysanthemums on dark velvet.

November running low on the eastern sky.

Loosened arrows 

invade the heart.

Torrent after torrent.

Rain on my roof.

I remember each dress my grandmother made me.

And this deep season

like buzzing of flies in late afternoon,

dry rattle of corn harvested in late fall.

Thinking of death.

When we rode the Clydesdales to the river

bareback, & without a bridle.

rev 7/7/94

TO SLEEP ON THE WAY HOME

The door to the right hip bone
opens into a howling snowfield.
The blizzard enters into this room
making my bones white.
These spaces between teeth
echo in dark corridors.
I climb the night sky
where the ice of Saturn circles
for millennia on end.
Chrysanthemums on dark velvet.
November running low on the eastern sky.

I subtract another year from my death date.
Loosened arrows invade the heart at any age.
Torrent after torrent.
Rain on my roof.
Deep under blankets
I remember each dress my grandmother made me.
And this deep season
like buzzing of flies in late afternoon,
dry rattle of corn harvested in late fall.
Thinking of death
when we rode the Clydesdales to the river
bareback
& without a bridle.

11/16/1985?

written at end of Nov., what year? I found a draft in my 1985 journal, but there were a few poems form 1984 in it....  Written on the Typestar 6. Probably 86. But could be 85. In my Napa poetry folder.

It's words type this and then they came below be back to be read typed and then she sticks these things and then the rose madder is getting sloppy. Check with buzz Chiclets for lunch and broccoli. Don't read this. TypeStar beep beep, to sleep on the way home. The path least taken. What are they thinking of all this noise? I giggle I giggle and effort to hold the pen, no images. The dried corn harvested in late fall. The seasons run later here in the valley than at home. Yesterday, I looked 

I think it's 11/16 as well because this nonsensical freewrite becomes TO SLEEP ON THE WAY HOME which is on the next page.