Monday, January 28, 2019


In all directions, the blankest
faces—not of death, but
imagination, of old ingenuity

now breathless and perfect-
ly preserved in
fresh ice. And the mute snow—

holding fast and glaring
up at the cloud-shrouded aspect
of some meek and

underfed January sun,
while the wet wind combs
and rakes the accumulation into rows,

and the skinny buildings
of in the distance, groom
and mold that same prodigal wind.

At last, all is clean
and nameless and new—
and visible across the grounds

are only a few
dappled traces—
but absent are the usual

accompanying sounds—
of several million human
beings trying.