distractions

there is a book
I am supposed to be reading
or worse, writing,
and instead what do I do
but think about how much my eyebrows
could use some shaping,
and why haven't I found the perfect lipstick,
and how there seems to be an endless,
rotating pile of dishes in the sink
neglected, perpetually in need
of washing.

I don't think enough
about that book I'd been meaning to read
or the essay I'd meant to write so that someday
my name might appear in the New York Times
in full, fascinating italics.
I don't say it enough, really,
don't say enough about a lot of things,
don't push them out of the door of my head
and onto the beautifully traffic-snarled main street
where there is the disruption of snow or fog or heroism or even, yes, tragedy
because keeping them inside means a kind of hot chocolate warmth
and there are so many lovely but meaningless distractions
which take more than enough time
like dishes or lipstick or eyebrows
any attempts at organization and aesthetic prowess
I take ridiculous amounts of time
just for this

so
I won't say it, won't push it out the door,
that thing, that dream,
the engine behind it all,
keep it quiet, instead, and I mean "it"
as in everything,
"it" as in the ruddy moonscape of my life
all the nameless, imperceptible furies and fantasies
the life that refuses to be categorized
the unarticulated life
that life
I keep it
where I can see it. Inside.

But how the wind
whooshes on the outskirts of the windows
a howl, one delirious heart-splitting song,
the wind is this grand sweep of desire
a chemical want
a cataclysm of such horrible love
it topples things, changes their shape,
changes its shape, too.

I can't imagine it.

What would it be like
to rise out of the cozy chair
and put my cheek against the glass
to feel even the muted intimation of that wind?
What would it be like
to rise from my cozy chair
and head, my God,
out the door entirely?