Now I know that everything is a body, so even the snow and the sand and the blood rivered down in the snow, and snowed on again so it's buried is a body. All things are bodies in photos— detail of the left side of a breast and the arm's pit—detail of the sled slumbered under by the storm's leavings. Detail of my sort of so-early half-lit eyelid light that bodies are near to invisible and touch is no longer the sole way of knowing, and outline is all that there is. Detail of your body as it does its morning leaving thing. Detail of what light there is on your skin. Detail of land- scape of let me in please and coffee, warm when the weather's action on this body is less than ideal. Landscape with pear. Landscape with weather and part of a breast in the frame.
It covers everything, a glossy January rind along tires. Sunny days have brought it out, burned away the ice, left the calcified tidelines to gloat on the hoods and sun-warm trunks of cars queued up along the curb, parking close as they can get to each other, to the raised sidewalk that’s buried beneath the dirt crust next to the neon-lit sign for the funeral home. The body of the boy we knew is still inside, the cheeks teased back to cheery life with rouge. The ice on the canal the faulty floor through which he descended blazing on the back of his Arctic Cat is black as slate which means it’s thin and boys on the shore throw aimless stones that yield ricochets with laser sounds. The outdoor rink is bare, festooned with bits of the Canadian flag fragments of the maple leaf glistening starlike after storm.