On the sixth day after the storm, crusts of snow peppered with soot and fir nettles, footprints caving into walls of crystals melting into slush. I clutch this scene like a snapshot, seen inexplicably in the empty eyes of the dead.

It dawns on me
I've distilled all integrity in the steady
that Spring will return as belief-systems
fall to the height of their tales.

The rabbi looked so pleased when he said, "Come back at noon, then the community breaks in, voices are divided and speech is pluralized. The group functions as an instance of enunciation that would be the modern equivalent of the (collective) myths of antiquity and the (anonymous) epics of the Middle Ages. Having made a break with any authorial regime, you can say Kaddish for your father." I didn't have the heart to tell him that blood-lines are ambiguous as "the hands of time."

         Sasquatch laughs in his mittens.
         With arms stretched out

         shadow is the dust
a collapsing star.


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