THE SNOW WILL ARRIVE LIKE A FOX IN A DREAM

the snow will arrive like a fox in a dream
white itself and the fox white
– and a fish in grain –
– and the grain burned up in a dolphin  –

the fox is not alone – for heavenly water
is glued to the bottom – with a flute and sound
– but it has reeled in the nets –
of loneliness – of words with the sugar

of what i wrote there – that my hand
sheltered from the wind – as much as possible
i opened it with the beak of a hawk
– and you close it – unable to put it back together

in any order – both the earth
and the signs say: at that age
you can bring everything in grain
– a river on a fox –

but the words just taken out of sacks
i myself: am the grain and wine-maker
– the flute of minutes –
– the ashes of an orchard –

why does the double that appears more often
in the door – deftly disappear?
– and the lines already grow smaller – and in them are
– more secrets –

and there are no explanations – who will sweep
those ashes – who is waiting
– and which wind will take you – in what will it put you
– for it is gone –

THE SNOW WILL ARRIVE LIKE A FOX IN A DREAM