WEBVTT

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It's a poem called, Spring Snow.

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Here comes the powdered milk I
drank as a child and the money

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it saved.

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Here come the
papers I delivered.

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The spotted dog and Heath
that followed me home,

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and the dogs that followed her.

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Here comes a load
of white laundry

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from basketball practice, and
sheets with their water marks

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of semen.

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And here comes snow--

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a language in which no
word is ever repeated.

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Love is impossible--
and remorse.

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Yet childhood doesn't
end but accumulates--

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each memory knit to the next.

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And the fields become one field.

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If to die is to lose
all detail, then death

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is not so distinguished,
but a profusion of detail--

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a last gossip, character
passed wholly into fate.

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And fate and flecks like
dust, like flower, like snow.

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