All night I dreamed of my home, <br />of the roads that are so long <br />and straight they die in the middle— <br />among the spines of elderly weeds <br />on either side, among the dead cats, <br />the ants who are all eyes, the suitcase <br />thrown open, sprouting failures. <br /> <br /> <br />2. <br />And this evening in the garden <br />I find the winter <br />inside a snail shell, rigid and <br />cool, a little stubborn temple, <br />its one visitor gone. <br /> <br /> <br />3. <br />If there were messages or signs, <br />I might hear now a voice tell me <br />to walk forever, to ask <br />the mold for pardon, and one <br />by one I would hear out my sins, <br />hear they are not important—that I am <br />part of this rain <br />drumming its long fingers, and <br />of the roadside stone refusing <br />to blink, and of the coyote <br />nailed to the fence with its <br />long grin. <br /> <br /> <br />And when there are no messages <br />the dead lie still— <br />their hands crossed so strangely <br />like knives and forks after supper. <br /> <br /> <br />4. <br />I stay up late listening. <br />My feet tap the floor, <br />they begin a tiny dance <br />which will outlive me. <br />They turn away from this poem. <br />It is almost Spring.<br /><br />Larry Levis<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/signs-24/
