The field is in its element: confetti

knee-, neck-deep. As rain is the applause

of the sky, so this is delirious
burning in cold light: a hyper-tide

of breathing. Skies vanish

in warm breath-banks, opacity
of words and, quarried from cloud,

whole speeches of snow furring

the soft map of earth. Into the storm-
lines, shot with frozen stars

a blurred outline

moves ahead, out of earshot,
lugging his bag of instruments

to the car. The snow-gods follow

his footprints, filling them in,
effacing words. Silence.

His visits always end this way,

speaking completely leached
into dazzling whiteness:

an open contract unfolding.

So complete, in fact, the silence,
that after darkness falls

the white gloom goes on smouldering

with what there is left to say.