Blue Hole

The winter mirages ride in on the back of the third snow, ormaybe the fourth. It is the snow after the snow when we stopusing numbers to measure each drift, when we start dressingwithout looking outside.

The air is cold beyond counting, a reeducation. Constant pulsingof white. Wind scrapes each used and thin layer from car roofsand wood-paneled porches. It stirs the snow lazily as if into adrink. A frozen blue hole.

I am from here, so cold comes back to me like it has also comefrom me. It is like a leg of my own I have sawn off and thrown inthe spring. In the fall I see it returning, banging around in themouth of a dumb, faithful dog, and when he comes close, I grabit. I place the leg under my hip and I stand.