Snow falls in the Moosewood Sandhills, on ghost
burrows, deer woods, in the bone-home,
last snow.
What does it mean to become nothing?
You've dug a cave in the earth,
room of knowing, room of tears.
It means to place yourself beneath irrational things
and know they are without blame.
The potato smell of the dark.
You've given up.

Autore: Tim Lilburn