All that is white in us in not pure nor
(but driven to the breath of) snow that falls
when the day turns cold. Our wanting all
belonging (in this place), is even more

the colon's gesture: already who bore
too much the saying of what we have called
selves (the being here of us) a creek a wall
(the snows melting) the water over. Or,

tomorrow you find us building a hut
of limbs and thatch, stripped gum, old bark, fragrant
litter of leaves, the floor dry and crawling.

Tomorrow you find us building a falling,
the odour of crushed ants, the living urgent,
assessing loss (a lean-to, its skin shut?)