His case inspires interest

But little sympathy; it is smaller

Than at first appeared. Does the furst nettle

Make any difference as what grows

Becomes a skit? Three sides enclosed,

The fourth open to a wash of the weather,

Exits and entrances, gestures theatrically meant

To punctuate like doubled-over weeds as

The garden fills up with snow?

Ah, but this would have been another, quite other

Entertainment, not the metallic taste

In my mouth as I look away, density black as gunpowder

In the angles where the grass writing goes on,

Rose-red in unexpected places like the pressure

Of fingers on a book suddenly snapped shut.

Those tangled versions of the truth are

Combed out, the snarls ripped out

And spread around. Behind the mask

Is still a continental appreciation

Of what is fine, rarely appears and when it does is already

Dying on the breeze that brought it to the threshold

Of speech. The story worn out from telling.

All diaries are alike, clear and cold, with

The outlook for continued cold. They are placed

Horizontal, parallel to the earth,

Like the unencumbering dead. Just time to reread this

And the past slips through your fingers, wishing you were there.