snow is a ghost you hold in affection.
a global theater as the mason of echo. speak
the inquiry of despair, speechless amid contented silence.
the numb medallion of your body
rolls in dreamless sleep
like a magnum opera of thought
into frozen, somnolent hands.
you are standing
in what you regard
as infinite braids
of empire inside your life.
snow is a dynasty of ruins.
you dance underneath its soft tumult
like an endless waterfall of confetti.
poor souls under that globe I shake! was drumming away with thought and realized I’d written a formless sonnet. wintry as wallace stevens, forgive me.