Each flurry marks another evaporated year, another
three inches on my darling stalks. The morning after the blizzard

we loaf in the city’s elegant hush, we sip brandy
at mid-day. I keep hearing Grandma say, Snow, that white

anesthesia. I keep watching the ghost trees hover
over their sucked-out leaves. And then, acute & sudden grasp of the looming—

I will make a great show of myself, and disappear.