a poem by Lyn Lifshin
February, After DuPont Circle
off the metro,
the grass is flecked
with snow. The
apartments’ lights
are going on slowly.
I can almost reach
down and carry
home glistening
handfuls still
holding on to the
last salmon light.
Where the pond
is frozen, a white
island geese huddle
on. Branches
the beavers haven’t
gnawed off move
slowly toward rooms
like torn shutters
blown toward
us as trains and
stars disappear