The Theory of Snow

The night was dark, really dark.
I stopped above the round about
and hurried to urniate
fearful of the wild pigs, omnivores
that stag along the streets
at night. The deer wander through
the hedges to gape and yawn.
The big cats and bears are still
one range away in their territory
where the roads washed away
in a hundred year rain last summer.

When will it be the last time?

This brain of mine is imagination,
corroborated and clean, full
of the most drastic information.
Women here are flag lace and spread eagled,
I'm not used to it anymore,
not used to the going feral.

This snow is a bright lozenge
in the night, hoped for, planned out.
Every piece falls conspicuously
through the lamplight as I wait
for the dragnet of your verbs,
the tragedy of all is well.

No one is well now, are they?