The storm passed like a fever. Now the residual snow
fits across Monodnock, a specific abyss: down the Asheolot Valley
to the river's roots, tucks under the ice at the rim of the reservoir
and pulls taut. Strange, that no pine or hawk or printing animal has punctured it,
through a night and a day and a night. I respect its blank
precision. By the end a man I loved also insisted on dying.
Alone in his body, he insisted. Even the snow is warmer
than that rage, that blank page. Now not
even if I had the power. How could I choose
pain for him, to keep the dead alive a little? Better none
than an elegy fed on grief like that, constantly
changing, constantly freshened and greedy.
[This poem appears in Tapscott's From the Book of Changes (Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2002)]