by Felix Jung
When the snowflakes hit, it’s hard to tell
if I’m the one they cling to, or if it’s
one another. Flagrant lovers, they’ll bind
at any opportunity. There’s a solid inch
laid down, a frosted white that makes
all surface icing, all concrete, cake.
Ahead, I see a wide expanse of nothingness
half-clouded by the drifts. My feet set
forth deliberately, an astronaut upon
the moon. Behind me, in my wake, I leave
small absences that slowly fill. Goddess
of both brevity and memory, the snow
records all steps. The snow forgets.
Where am I from? Where am I walking to?
Was I looking for or leaving you?