The weather forecast that snow would fall from the sky. (The architecture of snow was like the architecture of the storm itself, and of the landscape.) The weather forecast was that snow would fall. We are like snow he said. She understood her heart was cold. And that if the walls could not be breached by rhetoric or conjecture, still they leaned, comfortably perhaps, one against the other, an aggregate of disturbances, rust that in the meantime corrodes, makes beautiful. You are like snow. She thought, but I told you that before. The architecture of loss, the hand of a loved one. You are not like other weather he said.
Where ducks sat we sat next
And wanted to be Dutch.
If we would walk upright and not
Glance right or left the intersections
Would not come at us
Sideways, is what we thought.
But after a time it is hard
To keep feeling you are making this the best time
To look back on.
We talked. Some times I would walk
By a beetle thrashing
On the rocking of its domed-back and flip
It rightside. To say I’m here, and you be there.
Now the cicadas. Their long curving
Sound, and I turn
The thick line of their music into
Us. Even the ducks.
Then look back at the trip, how
Better than to be on it it is to be
Well bathed, and able to read the coins
And translate their value.