Posted on 19 April 2010

The snow fell in March, as it had not the three months prior,
Not an avalanche, no, but a heap like falling leaves,
White grass, strait fields,
Slopping roofs, twisted yards.
I live at the edge of city and nature,
Water flows from the tap, factory on top of factory,
And such faces, as if the people were already in a platoon
As if they were people…
On the way home I go down to the subway,
He has half a dry branch
With still living roots, musing women,
Who don’t come to the phone.
Death pays a child’s fare and enters
Everybody mistakes her for a cheerleader.

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