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He thinks it is a philosophical wasteland, a
measure of him and a measure of March
grit under his shoe, to turn his ankle so
and grind it and he forgets, he
doesn't know what he is for and
so again he is an impotent boy in the brown woods with
homemade red woollen mittens, with the hiss and
loneliness of beginning snow, pit pat, and the
house maybe visible maybe not through the trees
the rising stomach of alone, and untended, and the
long strain of his eye and ear for that house ten or fifteen steps
further out, or further in, and
a voice calling to come home, a seeking of the
house, and the mittens, and the no one, and how it can all
be reduced to one grind in the turn of
an ankle, a shoe, a gesture of
conscious intent, the abstraction of bony hands
knitting, knit purl knit, the arthritic knuckles knobbed and brushing the
grit stippled into his palms, and smoothing and
soothing the
reddened skin away.