The field is in its element: confetti
knee-, neck-deep. As rain is the applause
of the sky, so this is delirious
burning in cold light: a hyper-tide
of breathing. Skies vanish
in warm breath-banks, opacity
of words and, quarried from cloud,
whole speeches of snow furring
the soft map of earth. Into the storm-
lines, shot with frozen stars
a blurred outline
moves ahead, out of earshot,
lugging his bag of instruments
to the car. The snow-gods follow
his footprints, filling them in,
effacing words. Silence.
His visits always end this way,
speaking completely leached
into dazzling whiteness:
an open contract unfolding.
So complete, in fact, the silence,
that after darkness falls
the white gloom goes on smouldering
with what there is left to say.