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?)