Someone is burning pages of poems in the university's attic.
Perhaps as a sign of protest, because the birds
keep forgetting the lines of their songs.
Now and then, inserting the quivering of wires
or mimicking the rhythm of rattling trains.
Or maybe this is the fastest way for silence
to reach its recipients.
Silence in which the meanings of all the
dictionaries in the world are hidden.
And others, too.
So weightless, so meaningful, this ashy snow
outside the window.
It will take it less than a minute.
But it will take me an eternity.