Forthwith the weather report. I’ve never met
A human who could keep quiet about weather,
So why can’t a mutant, alien poet, mostly dead,
Pretend to be human again? It started warm
And windy, with shafts of sunlight stabbing in.
For hours, then, flurries that melted on landing.
After dark, the snow began to stick, but even
At midnight it was just two fingers of frosting
And was hardly coming in. A little more at dawn
And by breakfast a faint, fine steady flickering.
Only after mid-morning did it find the strength
To earn the warnings on the highways, in the news.
Quiet and concentrated, not a trace of wind,
It accumulated like change itself accumulates,
The world slowly turning into that other world
It always had within it, the blank future piled
Up in the past, the problem of truth as we know it,
The blurring of knowledge by belief. Time
To count on further change to erase this
Erasure. Time to hunker down indoors.
Do not think I’m going out there, anymore.
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