Snowstorms

What tragic disorder, that

there is a heaven,

and you are alone in it,

in madness and blur,

beyond midnight of white skies,

you made of life.





calling yourself the left behind.

calling yourself stained sheets,

calling yourself wanton of the white.




You, a heavy pit of stones.

Pit of wounds,

Body, light, like snow.

Body, sharp — like unforgiving blade,

too difficult to kill.





Pain freezes in you,

a river of dry blood.





Leave them to wonder how your knees

got so heavy from the storm,

your bones, weightless

like air.


Heaven rains,

body, soaked.

Boots wet,

they cling to the trees,

they cling to whatever stays.

You cling to your body, fearful

you will lose it.





You must know better,

The hour is too late to be,

inviting yourself,

into heavy white graves.