My Friend Rosemary

 
Over the phone a voice said soon now.
And the long night drive through
winter rain, voices whisper
on the pavement, rolling towards 
the dark edge where time breaks
into a white, a white cliff
of far-off limestone.
Even now when I  reach out
and touch you
I didn't know we were too late.
It was as if you had invited us
for a visit through the long winter night,
so we could talk, our voices, quiet, 
thick with wine.
As if you were only distracted for a moment,
leaning into a white shift of stars.
Frail, x-rayed into a plain English
you have discovered a new, wonderful
ha rmony, one that I cannot hear,
that is intimate like the purity of stone.
Although the light from your face
is still luminous, still bright,
I can hardly see you.
Slow raindrops. Neighbors.  Patter
on a black window glass, past midnight.
Prairie ice storm coming in
out of the west.
Your name makes me think
of a pressed white dress, starched,
with small red roses printed on it
as if held by a hand
to be forever folded away
with white crystals.
The cold glass of the window
is wedged deep into the night.
The world outside has turned into ice.
Standing here my body begins to die,
floats outside into the black rain,
until I forget all the words,
everything, even the faint pulse
at the back of my throat.
I have forg otten even the feel
of my fingers, curled upwards 
on a windowsill, dumb,
inarticulate, stunned,
as if they held snow.
Outside the tree branches,
ice encased, bend down.