.

David Bowie
turned 60
and finally,
last night,
it snowed,
white filled up
the dark til morning
when a north wind
rearranged it, sent it
flying past pavement,
dry and sparse,
to trace the lake
like icing sugar,
and still there by noon,
inspired wet gobs of
gesso slapped-thin
across canvas, sticky
wet sounds, and thin
streams of cream dropped
into coffee, steam on
the windows and brushes,
still life submerged
in milky white water

last week, while walking
home from the gallery,
I saw two men who
approached from the left,
one tall and young, dark-haired,
the other clearly in distress,
white-haired, red-faced.
we met at the lights,
at red metaphors, where
the older man leaned
into me, placed his bare
hand on my arm, stared
hard as if he saw words
on my skin, and said,
"I'm all fucked up.".
I dropped my book and
the younger man picked
it up, kneeled and smiled
with apologetic intensity
that burned a bent-over
hole in my eyes until
the other voice dispelled
his gaze with repetition,
again saying "I'm all fucked up."
perhaps to be certain
that he had actually
said it the first time,
so I replied,
"Yes. I can see that."
which seemed to satisfy
him until the light turned
green, until the taller man
clasped his shoulder,
unintentionally tugged
at his white scarf,
and turned back to say,
"I'm taking him back
to his place."

later,
it reoccurred to me
that art is spiritual,
that the man who was
lost had clearly been
found again, if only
for a moment



and, o,
the plethora
of cosmic nudges
contained in white