Stephanie

Your red cheeks radiant against the wind,
When I am heard, and what I say is solely
Blurring the terrain,
A salamander scuttles across the quiet
To reach out into its own vanishing
Only whirled snow heaped up by whirled snow,
Absurdly, my eyes can only see the arc
The winter road from the St. Simeon farm
Seized from creation by nonentity,
The edge of that other square cut from the right
Grateful, I know, for just such compensations,
And the wide arrowhead the road itself
This perfection, this absence.
Bronze the sky, with no
The pain of being born into matter.
But what I am looking at is hardened snow,
Yes. The obvious
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
there's a pulpy orange-y smell from juice factories....