Snow Logic
Dead of winter
half the self remains
circulating like phosphor
in the blind distance.
Wind runs over
the black acres,
frost studded
with the upshoot of saplings.
Streets mowed-over
like a desert dream, receding.
Constellations over the plain
are wound syntax.
Tree limbs are shot veins.
Eyes lost
before the clarity of dawn
scan the prairie
for knowing
for air.