And why not an equation? The numbers
keep him warm at night, beg him to read stories.
They believe in him when his wife will not,
when the forecast calls for snow, unending snow…
What do you love the most?
Say the reddish work of death
as it strolls through the fields…
You see? If you're picking apples,
it is pointless to watch the sky,
to sort each starry feather
that falls from its transparent perch.
Snow, Snow, I'm in love with the dead,
with this white and broken air—
Without stars there is nothing to keep you
from slowing the sky.
The rain subtracts
from the landscape
the light it needs to become whole.