All night I dreamed of my home, br of the roads that are so long br and straight they die in the middle— br among the spines of elderly weeds br on either side, among the dead cats, br the ants who are all eyes, the suitcase br thrown open, sprouting failures. br br br 2. br And this evening in the garden br I find the winter br inside a snail shell, rigid and br cool, a little stubborn temple, br its one visitor gone. br br br 3. br If there were messages or signs, br I might hear now a voice tell me br to walk forever, to ask br the mold for pardon, and one br by one I would hear out my sins, br hear they are not important—that I am br part of this rain br drumming its long fingers, and br of the roadside stone refusing br to blink, and of the coyote br nailed to the fence with its br long grin. br br br And when there are no messages br the dead lie still— br their hands crossed so strangely br like knives and forks after supper. br br br 4. br I stay up late listening. br My feet tap the floor, br they begin a tiny dance br which will outlive me. br They turn away from this poem. br It is almost Spring.