WEBVTT

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"The falling snow
will melt before 7:00

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and no one will know.

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It lies on the terrace.

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Gnarled leathers, raked bricks,
old roses rot in a cap of ice.

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No cats.

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No mice.

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This is a light
morning snow that

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like spittle, dribbles on the
stones and fades into rivulets.

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Green, frozen lettuce on the
banks, a Palestinian flag

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waves in this small, Irish
town, the correspondence being

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children throwing stones.

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Behold, clouds Irishly
low and silver.

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Weather is a god more
potent than money and war.

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Protean, indifferent, it
will resurrect then crucify

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without mercy.

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The south turns into
the north at the border.

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Structures grow
stern and Norman.

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The fields are beaten
into submission

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and narrow lipped
stone houses wonder

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if there are distinctions
between humans worth knowing.

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Nowhere is better than
a road without judgment.

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