Sara Wintz

We are watching the transitioning in landscape
of swamp, to marsh covered hill.

Skeletal towers
that stand with legs spread,

before the figureless buildings that undulate
on the opposite side of the room.

We are watching the transitioning

from a train car that rolls forward [Puffs of smoke floating up to the sky.]

with its head turned to a side waiting

     Snow flakes from its tresses down
and across
dirtly face of city,
Mixes with soot at feet
and stacks of smoke
filing up to the sky.

                                                                                         sea gulls
                                                                                         into water.

                                                                                         sea gulls
                                                                                         into water

dissolving into a running strand of concrete.

Here is where we are
and this is what we have
Debris and assumed evidence:
ground-crouched branches of trees
and animals segmented at roadside,
astroturf, skylights,
smog, and soot.

A child stares into
This wave that is breaking (He
kicks the snow
with his feet
and throws it
into the air.

The pieces suspend
and his
stop blinking.

Where it is from all sides,

falling, and the

melting and the

diving and the

driving and the


Slowing begins,
inside the whiteness
that spirals thicker
each falling gesture.

A slowing of gears
of clicking keys
a slowing of
tires a
slowing of toes
and heels, a slowing
of opening
and closing doors
a slowing
and stopped behind windows
the eyebrows
and eyes
and noses
and posed lips.
The white
that piles

stop and stare. stopped and staring. stopping and stare.

no running
is there
no foaming
is no crossing there
no constructing and there is no planning.

Inside of a house
stammering wood throws heat that
fogs window glass.
It stops
steadier glances from walking out.

To take up a collection:
                                                                                                 the whiteness rests
                                                                                                 atop itself.

Bodies curled into the fetal position.

The thick drops
and lie
on lids

we turn down our eyes
we drop the lids under
the weight of
drops of heads lifted
into dropping.

a quiet.
once all has stacked:
the white, the lids on eyes.

                                                                                   then, the dark night
                                                                                   added under the layers
                                                                                   of constellations, spheres, galaxies

Sun grows to steady,
as with the yellow
leading of highway
elongated dashes.
Eyes, Our bodies’
exposing under lifted blankets.


Some noses press against the outside                                                The green grasses
Noses push attachments across lawns to decipher                             that peek from snow

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