Walking along in this not quite prose way
we both know it is not quite prose we speak
and it is time to notice this intolerable snow
innumerably touching, before we sink.
It is time to notice, I say, the freezing snow
hesitating toward us from their gray heaven;
listen-it is falling not quite silently
and under it still you and I are walking.
Maybe there are trumpets in the houses we pass
and a hid bird watching from an evergreen
but nothing will happen until we pause
to flame what we know, before any signals given.
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