Under snowfall, the sky lit
as an eerie summer day.
Where you may lay in that sepia noon,
this was our evening, pushed upside--
to the sky, instead of from it.

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How more like life, than to walk
on a crust of ice. Snow,
the dissembled puzzle--
refrozen, at its almost last life.
Once came soft, then together--
then, the breaking of a stanza.

--cracking, the pale ground,
not quite earth.
To walk, with flat, snake, feet,
on the crispest dirt.

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