Fallen snowflakes serve
as a wish for a lightless life, and
their dance is all a farce, because
we haven’t lit the lights.
Evil seeps below arduous
fountains, strong with its strong ambition,
like the wind it moves mouthfuls of snow.
Wisdom is rigor mortis . . . rigging
the game is safer than this squallish
state of being lost and found along the roads of
reason . . . .
The snowy sky is immobile as if warning against
a grand immobile servitude. The
snow has nearly stopped hoping.