SATURDAY

Was there so much sinning this week?
The earth is in a fever of cleaning.
The bright snow chases itself

Right and left,
Whirls in snow devils,
Blows off to the north.

It scours it all.
The snow is clean and white
And sparkles like mica

And in their oily skins,
The housewives
Feel Sunday's church heating up.

They hear the church breathe.
Even their pulses are dusty!
At noon, it begins.

In brass beds, in spool beds,
The housewives lie naked
And from deep in the forest,

The animals come, heavy with sleep,
Moving on the town slowly and sadly
Like prisoners

Who do not know what they have done.
The raccoon enters one house,
The porcupine another.

Deer, mouse, own and bear,
One to a house, up the long stair,
Onto the bed.

And their rough tongues
Lick the long bodies clean.
Heavily they go,

Past the frozen river
In which the men chop holes and bathe,
Little fish nibbling their skins.

The women bring dainty dishes
To the edge of the woods.
They use their best china.
The night is full of sad animals' cries.

All night, they dream of the clean dens,
The pillars of trees,
The high arched rooves which loose themselves

Beneath the cold, polished glass
Of the sky.
At night, the husbands and wives
Dream they are made of glass
And move through the scenes

Of stained glass windows.
There are white lilies, a sweet smell,
But there is always thunder and lightning,
And, from the sky,
An angry voice.

Still, every now and then
An angel alights on each one's shoulder,
And when this happens,
The husbands and wives
Turn to one another
And see the most beautiful people
In the world.

Unfortunately, in the morning,
They wake up.