In Whose Unctions

After Stevens By now the snow is easing the live nerves of the wire fence and the firs, softening the distances it falls through, laying down a rightness, as in the spackled whites, the woodgrains of a room’s hush before music, before a lush legato in whose unctions the excruciations ease, as in the first thick arrhythmics from the hardwoods of the late quartets, whose dense snow of emotion, downdrifting, formal, whose violins and cellos, desiring the exhilarations of changes, turn loose an infusion of wintry music, all sideslip and immense descent, repetitions, evolutions salving down into the still air, the wound, the listening.