The great improbable lie of snow
I think about to music used as rain.
Tangential silence.

Music the lie of silence, poetry
an outline of the body obscene.
Crimes of minimality.

Pines I used to hide in, to see what hiding
was like within pine; a prince in a castle
(not yet king),
guard kept beneath the apples.

The rain, it falls; snow will follow
useless as poetry, as murder revisited,
and corporeal myth
a type of static through the window.