Empathy and New Year

“A notion like that of empathy inspires great distrust in us, because it connotes a further dose of irrationalism and mysticism.”—LÉVI-STRAUSS

Whitman took the cars

all the way from Camden

and when he got here

or rather there, said,

“Quit quoting,” and took the next

back, through the Jersey meadows

which were that then. But

what if it is all, “Maya,

illusion?” I

doubt it, though. Men are not

so inventive. Or

few are. Not knowing

a name for something proves nothing. Right

now it isn’t raining, snowing, sleeting, slushing,

yet it is

doing something. As a matter of fact

it is raining snow. Snow

from cold clouds

that melts as it strikes.

To look out a window is to sense

wet feet. Now to infuse

the garage with a subjective state

and can’t make it seem to

even if it is a little like

What the Dentist Saw

a dark gullet with gleams and red.

“You come to me at midnight”

and say, “I can smell that after

Christmas letdown coming like a hound.”

And clarify, “I can smell it

just like a hound does.”

So it came. It’s a shame

expectations are

so often to be counted on.

New Year is nearly here

and who, knowing himself, would

endanger his desires

resolving them

in a formula? After a while

even a wish flashing by

as a thought provokes a

knock on wood so often

a little dish-like place

worn in this desk just holds

a lucky stone inherited

from an unlucky man. Nineteen-sixty-

eight: what a lovely name

to give a year. Even better

than the dogs’: Wert

(“… bird thou never …”)

and Woofy. Personally

I am going to call

the New Year, Mutt.

Flattering it

will get you nowhere.

II

Awake at four and heard

a snowplow not rumble—

a huge beast

at its chow and wondered

is it 1968 or 1969?

for a bit. 1968 had

such a familiar sound.

Got coffee and started

reading Darwin: so modest,

so innocent, so pleased at

the surprise that he

should grow up to be him. How

grand to begin a new

year with a new writer

you really love. A snow

shovel scrapes: it’s

twelve hours later

and the sun that came

so late is almost gone:

a few pink minutes and

yet the days get

longer. Coming from the

movies last night snow

had fallen in almost

still air and lay

on all, so all twigs

were emboldened to

make big disclosures.

It felt warm, warm

that is for cold

the way it does

when snow falls without

wind. “A snow picture,” you

said, under the clung-to

elms, “worth painting.” I

said, “The weather operator

said, ‘Turning tomorrow

to bitter cold.’” “Then

the wind will veer round

to the north and blow

all of it down.” Maybe I

thought it will get cold

some other way. You

as usual were right.

It did and has. Night

and snow and the threads of life

for once seen as they are,

in ropes like roots.