Behind the window, wet snowflakes rise and descend,
cold white insects.
In the summer, their brothers swirled in the sun's low,
as I sped on my bicycle through the dark gullet of spruce-rows
some always filtered into my eyes, my mouth.
They were cool, even then.
Now I sacrifice toenails, relinquish some of my own warmth
to the back of an armchair.
As a dark, painful spot in God's brain,
which is unknown
as long as it isn't troubled into truth,
pain made visible, known.
As if starting with me.
Easily, evolution leaves my toes. Hard, curved wings
clicking down to the floor,
hurtle through room space until I gather
squeeze painful solid time tighter in my fist.
They tell me that I exist, that I am about to become,
where l'm going now.
I open the window, a cold wedge falls into the room,
slants into my lap, casts its sign of the cross on my forehead,
my belly, my right and left shoulder.
I am being cared for, terribly.
I open the easy prayer of my fist and throw.
The toenails fly out among the flakes, perhaps
soon to notice how puny the freedom they're leaving.