Science says:
The future is feeding back
into the past.
Without being asked to go, old
White Christmas
snow acquiesces,
is fragmenting—and, wet and unbuffeted,
you can again hear the city crack-
and creaking
at grimy street level;
gazing up at high windows,
you can just imagine
molted needles and fine dust
which percolate cold penthouse halls in
the emptiness of late light—
dark filaments, like the nets
of unborn souls which (you still think
in private
minutes like this)
must softly stitch
the universe together—but,
like the dark types of light,
you don't observe
those parched rooms directly,
you see them obliquely—these alleys
all decked up
and down with dying pines.
