Night Snow

It is laid
and it falls.
It is here
and there
and every page
of the night
forgets its number.
It is though
and it is past
and it is coming
as the cyclops
eye of a train
delayed a mere
few centuries.
You know
the whistle.
It lays down
a tablecloth
over the lake.
It is in the lamps
of the streetlights
and the dark places
between houses
where they
cannot touch
but only grow bars
and other places
where people
become mushrooms,
can only
look and look
at the brightness
between
all things
dead and busy
in the darkness,
through no window.

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