The trees see me make patterns in the snow

My memory tracks me down

The Moon hears my thoughts;
they shine like Neanderthal camp fires
along the coast lines

The start of day is prepared

The end of day tucks me in

These four walls hold me gently;
the floor greets my feet with trustworthy resistance;
the ceiling leaves some extra space above for haughtiness

The entire human race examples me amply

The atmosphere grows vocal cords and eardrums

Gravity grows muscles

Death grows time and ingenuity

Evolution is a mad dash;
all these languages from a single mutation

The tectonic plates have other plans for patterns

My illnesses clean and fondle my health,
'til it shines and glows

Yesterday is up for grabs;
tomorrow is a set-up

The radios talk in the silence

The directions point everywhere

The wind sleeps in a lull

There's a scarcity reaching for us all

The windows all lack thoughts,
but lean against the wind

My life trickles like moisture
through the moss on an ice age rock

Life's trick is its softness
and lack of eternity,
body by body

The images rush downwind

The birches up north in Scandinavia
stand like Roman legions

The snow softens these rocky slopes,
all but imperceptible shades speaking
for all that's hidden

The ski tracks fan out
at will of the directions

By itself, one occurrence topples the world

Equilibrium craves the other;
lop-sidedness flakes down the abyss

A lone skier across the Antarctica
makes friends with the Sun

It's the 11th of March,
and my penis has a slight abrasion
from intense skiing

The clothes are proof of our nakedness,
but we are all dressed
in the outer reaches of our imagination

It's hard to ride the Beast of Nothingness,
even in upper-case letters

The day remains in bed upstairs
with Monsieur Proust
'til well into the afternoon,
which trots 'round and 'round
out in the yard

Beware of people with funny clothes
and explanations!