What Passes for Knowing

Out in the snow I am
underneath awake
with my arms on a pine
bough legs over the
brown needles.

All things are seen.
The wild grass has not fallen over
underneath the weight
of snow. The deer pawing at
the roots.
The land so wide it goes
to the edges.

This cap was made for me and
my ears are warm.

See the ice on all things. So quiet; we
have eaten up the sounds except
the clicks that our ears hear.

All this passes away before the stern light when
the city mounts these hills. Cars
idle among the rocks. Bridges lie on
the creek. And even
these boughs are windowpanes
clattering in chill.

What you knew,
and I knew,
will curl in the corner of the room
and point its face
towards forget.