a reiteration, a resurrection




there's not enough of it,

nor time enough                                                                                                 

to parse it, provide it to a lover,

to prove that it exists in spite

of solipsism,

and on evenings like this when you feel as if

you can judge its curvature

in the way the snow moves

and in the silences between gusts

and in the way the gusts open up

and permit occasional

shafts of light to illuminate the boundaries

of our lives

which, lit up, smart with sadness