Tuesday, 19 January 2010

A poem.



The Falling

And so we come to the domestic avalanche,
that great weight of silence that does not wait
for the night, that forces us to gamble its steadying.
A muffled crack, a naming in your ear,
a slow slide from the church roof onto graves.
The first time any of us have looked up for days
or conceived of the white as anything but beauty.
There have been icicles forming for weeks;
and so we come to their falling. Swift. Soundless.

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