come winter does return to unmade each division —
landscape whitewashed to pathless and grid
lines undermined to uniting in harsh gusts in maybe
gentle crystals — what can release footsteps from follow
the ontrodden saltways / from buildings of edges all rounded
under wind-licks in dance-drift to dirt gone soft-grounded
beneath million-pound stormclouds in balance on precarious —
into avalanche into flurryfall into gusts into swirls into
mouth-steaming turbulence gone formless so unendable /
while wind with whipped snowfroth from topsy snowdrift sleepcloth
spreads salt-torn in covers to earth muddy slumber
through old cradle dreams under lullaby thunder.
