It has snowed

—no, the paper is torn

and where image was

imagination must—

Certainly it was

your hand—though

your head is gone—

on my thigh where

—yes, you’re buried

beneath the drifts—

It has snowed and

no one can erase it

Memory—how the sand

recalls the mountain

where strange flowers

mouth the mist—

Your right hand can

encircle both my wrists—

I tried to escape by

becoming the keyhole

the old kind—into which

nothing enters anymore

and nothing clicks—

Easily it would take

more heart than you

could ever give—

to melt it all

—and come back