Spring 1988 • Vol. X No. 2 Poetry |

Blizzard

It may have been the pattern of one storm, but by the sudden, unambiguous come of it, just past a river, by the here of it, as if millenia-heaped, the much of it, as if millenia-budgeted, I felt we'd crossed an arbitrary line and there, there in that very cloud of clouds the great throne stood from which a finger spoke and mutely all gave heed: those at the right —trees, houses, hillocks-wise enough to take their sunbeam gratefully; those at the left long since aware that but to whisper "Why?"—no less than outright pouts of insolence—might treble on their tops the chastisement which no one need remind them was their due—this white-whipped landscape, white-bespat, beshat.

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