the snowfall is arid  rushed  imitates the enthusiasm of a person
brutish, dusky daylight
snow walks along the treetops with tiny claws

tiny skeletons
skeletons of glass refined by fierce fire

snow  always stops
the moment it's still grating on the ear

as for death  what can the dead still remember?
a body secretly sprinkled all silver
a thousand pregnant women giving birth in the sky
cold orphans still not given permission
a pink ladder of flesh  leads to a tiny attic
a tiny attic of white night  where corpses are kept

you don't exist  so all year round you are snow-capped


the snowy ground is covered with blind men  they can't see
the poem that died in the hotel
and  the valleys that breed the fearsome sunlight

below the same precipices they lose their shadows
become thin black needles on the garden sundial
wash their feet in laughter

take pains to carve patterned vessels from a dead bird
drink deep at picnic time of the scarlet stream
noon  the scarlet stream exuded by blind eyes

they can't see  the tourists in the poem
lying naked in hotel beds
no need to fall  to get to the depths of an avalanche


a little clay lamp  is your present to darkness
in the clashing together of the sounds of the rain
the snow in your name is born
snow that engrains your body
pain  releases flocks of birds shut up in stones for years
each one a word  and you are wordless
the storm  is a cemetery in the air above city roofs
angels too  in the nest must lick their wounds
like golden-headed beasts kneeling on the olden days
a person revealed by water just has to follow the current
a snowfall is like music that goes down to death
you, when a name dies every day
expose a body that no-one can caress
let the sky feel
from snow to blood  feel all over the flame
until darkness  pays back some unknown person's time


night like a madman's thoughts  knocks
on our skulls  making us encounter
dangerous snow from a non-existent distance
like horses racing past a single peak beneath two stars
with the pricking of a nail buried in the summer night
hear ghosts laying the dust  sweeping the moon
hear  headstones tell lies  flaunt the arts of living

we are all snow  slipping downhill
innately non-personal and so squandering each person's death
night on the sickbed  squanders vain hopes
as the village of madmen strums away
candles are undying  bells sprinkle tears
on mountains and in fields white bones take off the mourning dress of our days
and  we are frozen into one complete stone


this mountain valley can't be visited
just like inside you  that attic of white night

when you're invited by the snow  flowers and plants are a silence
field of vision  like a glass of wine poured into darkness
burning in other places

when you're turned down by the snow  you are colourless
a hawk roosting in a wound  softly weeping sunlight
rock  slowly swallows you
and your sex shines with a brilliance impossible after death

when you have become the only impossibility
a lifetime's snows have already fallen

in the attic of white night  forceps tightly pinch
in the fragile dreams of birds  the sky cheers heartlessly
sweet pears on girls' breasts  fall into
the rainy season   the sound of rain  chases you all over your insides
an utterly naked man is only a snowflake

spotless white underfoot in the valley  glaring

a walk of a thousand years still hasn't crossed this room you aren't in


those who live in time know time isn't time
a rock is itself a poem
and shadow   engraved as a seat by a lake
weeds every June   read aloud here
snow   the silver-white book of the dead
and the brush of steel wire and coir is still stubbornly sweeping

a pair of muddy shoes of coffin wood
a set of paper handcuffs  make the convict more terrified yet
these words  go wrong when written down
words carved on cliffs  ride on a runaway cable car
broken apart day after day
poets who leap into a poem deserve only to be broken apart

in an imagination more lifelike than death
snow is a once-only walk  once and once only
June rots in chorus  as the bodies of the dead ring bells
all men  are ringing solitary bells that are fulfilled in this moment
dying more lifelike than in imagination
snow   has gone too far  can't help burying everything