the great blank of snow
has reached my eyes, the white
sun reflected
the great blank of snow
has reached my eyes, the white
sun reflected
I think sometimes
I carry it, and, other times,
it isn’t me
next time my breath
will be more like waves,
my heart armored
seagulls dropped crabs
to break them—we snatched them because
everything is ours
in idle moments, my
mind stuttering—the jerk of
an engine lurching
steam is in the sun
even if I’m not and flickers
like white fire
there’s having not
forgotten—intimacies
still immediate
sometimes a touch
remains—its trace ricochets
off others
horizontal snow—
the sweep of wind, the grain
of hidden currents
the sun hasn’t enough
heat to bake us, nor enough
to light the way