In the Chambers of the End

for Janet

 

In days to come we'll speak of one lost

weekend in the Adirondacks.

 

Our bags unpacked and sitting

by the red Santa in the cluttered hall

 

we eat poetry with pancakes and

Vermont syrup, blueberries hand picked

 

that spring by a woman who called us

ideal guests because we never left the room.

 

Whiteface scarred above our heads,

the cloud-splitting mountain

 

bandaged in white cross stitches.

Tiny skiers look like beetles

 

on a white bedspread.

We watch them fall to earth from

 

the high peaks and tell ourselves

this is the week that sealed it,

 

the week we fought over a poem

and slept in separate rooms. Our run to

 

Paradise began the week you didn't come

and left me counting lines of poets in their youth.

 

Unwearied still, lover by lover,

They paddle in the cold

 

Companionable streams or climb the air;

Their hearts have not grown old.