the patchwork the pidgin
the pooling and how there you stood
drooping more how you were lit
in such lobbies and counterfoils all night
on the bed bouncing in deliria
not with sex but with ardour and the many fascines
thrown on all sides like incense or gingerbread
how we bounced not once but thrice
barefooted and and
then such rides to the north
and i cannot exclaim it
freckles and dead meat
and a river running by
and on the tops the beginnings of snow
underneath it all ash and the ceaseless
sound of cars driving
along the high street the high road
into the highest and nearest river
and above it all on the tops
the soft leavening of snow
starting to happen
along the corridor route
above the gulfs so deep
all of us falling at the last
gasping up into the interior
but there on the tops, snow
into which as any would
we arms like rebar and over
the far we'er hills we overgo
nothing like this
nothing such
and there on the tops
you know again
this smallest snow
.
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