I walk on in the snow. I’ve closed
My eyes, but the light knows how to breach
My porous lids. And I perceive
That in my words it’s still the snow
That eddies, thickens, shears apart.
Letter we find again and unfold:
And the ink has paled and the bleached-out marks
Betray an awkwardness of mind
Which makes their lucid shadows just a muddle.
And we try to read, we can’t retrieve from memory
Who’s taking such an interest in ourselves—unless
It’s summer again; unless we see the leaves
Behind the snowflakes, and the heat
Rising from the absent ground like mist.