Snow from the placeless sky
Not falling but wandering here—
To the scene,
The next day empty.
Tears spent like necessary coin
Achieve mere purchase.
There is that image of a child we are given
To represent the new year
In the wordless story The Old Man passes
And The Infant staggers
On from there to age in turn.
They are the same being.
This is the supposed consolation,
That place at the edge of a wheel turning
Without sense of travel
Only that weight gathering, then passing—
Is it Faith that assumes purpose?
But this day with its damage cannot
and aches at what it evinces
In brokenness. The Innocents
Their names written, again and again
Until never is understood.
Until forgotten into meanings only others might entertain.
Is this then the light that becomes possible?
Ever real in this numb terrible knowledge?
Beneath this heaven's dull metallic shell
Darkening like a bruise
This moment seeming ashes become again the snow
Cold and pure —is this clear sight?