You look at the land silenced where it ends
and the snow growing sovereign by degrees
over all things, how sightless its descent,
and ceaseless, what's left of stark homes and trees
nothing save soft outline, a semi-world
of air, of white, of small light driving deep
over the plain so slow so cold it's pearled,
finite. Look how the hand shakes. Look, in the sleep
of the damaged the hands are the first to go.
How comely, how sickening the world falls
away from touch, only the brush of snow
known, surfaces quickening, surfaces stalled
to ice, numb--is this how the world was meant--
things gaining speed from themselves, the space painful
to the touch,
things lost
things sought
things touched into some other self.
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