The snow deepens fast but by little,
another mystery you do not understand,
like poetry, the poetry by the poet
to whose house you would go.
Snow crusts the headphones;
the music still insists.
You keep your footfall regular,
even, as if
you had an important meeting ahead,
not just weak tea and talk
you are never ready to return.
It’s as if someone had stretched a net
across the whitening fields, the ball
her voice, white itself, served up
to an impossible bounce to a man
without a racket.
So you imagined it would be.
The music went on, though,
pacing your inchoate self
to become an almost was.
Joseph Helminski teaches English at Oakland Community College near Detroit, and has published poems recently in Sweet Tree Review and The Tulane Review. Five of his poems will appear in the next issue of Assisi: An Online Journal of Arts & Letters.