Every snowflake draws its own name
not in the sky or on the ground, but here, on paper.
Every snowflake, even this one
in this poor neighborhood of mine, is outlined
not on the churchyard’s severe soil
or the frosty moors but right here
on this paper where I will sit you down
and myself right next to you.
Not a thing stirs, how could it,
because even the remotest star is just as close as the hand
my temple is leaning on, the light-years
belong to the wrong cosmology, the one
that aspires to separate us.
In the palm of my hand, I have just as many
universes as there are stars in the sky,
as many infinite points, images.
Crows are circling the top of a birch tree
like graphics engraved on a cloud.
They’re not flying, they’re breathing just like you
in a poor neighborhood under a poor poet’s arm
always at the same point.