Snow Drunk


The sky at dawn is the shadow
of the deer who hoped to be seen,
lagging behind like that to peek
through the hedges. Painters
only did that when they lacked
cameras to abstract that which is
abstracted. This one is gray
on gray with a spray of rose leaves
in the black of what is actually there:

azures, lemons, magentas, pales and darknesses.

The proof is in everything and each
of the prostrating shadows
of dawn, of noon, of dusk,
move this way and that way,
several ways, each one
a better color than the next
one and the unknown of that
is certainly more
than black can tell you
in the constant sillhouette
of the materials frozen
into the peculiar shapes of deers.
My shape is said to be that of a pear.

When I say this to the beholder
I am finished. Returning to
the window of shadows I find
the world has been lit up
and it has snowed.
It has literally snowed,
it is quiet and I am quiet
more than the snow
can tell me in its shushing.
We all begin to jump around
and we begin again our falling.