Winding Down

It smells like snow—
how visible
 
the petulant
 
flow raining down
its soft dissent 

I see us everywhere—the majestic 

shadows,
the petty rivalry of churches
 
piercing through like
                                   flint—
 
or is it in the gentle concussions
of voices
 
bouncing off the eaves
 
at a little past midnight
 
something foaming at the mouth
like wild
 
dogs in such strange and sad raptures
 
 
Only a milk-thin pastoral
will ever remember
 
this