The snow squall squatted, a cold man-o’war,
A frosted anvil sunk in the late-winter desert.
The highway seemed to curve to avoid it,
The way a line of poetry, the language
Of a poem, sometimes seems to bend
In an impossible way to avoid the hint
Of an accumulating narrative weather.
Nothing going to impede motion over this
Sly double pretense, apparent motion that was
Motionless, apparent motionlessness that never
Quit moving. A few outer bits of snow hissed
And spit against the windshields of the long-haul
Big rigs ignoring it. Nothing much had
To happen, had to happen, had to happen.
There’s never a true story in whatever happens.
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