somewhere above the distinction, but below the line. Bury me with
your good intentions. I’ll fall for it, I will fall hard. I’ll fall
into the cold hard ground. Driven deep, stakes for the circus tent.
Let me be the structure for something appropriate, something cheap
and frivolous. Let it be temporary. I don’t have the bones for
something old, I don’t have the salt of a good meal, I don’t
breathe well. I can help your coming and going attractions.
But I only ask,
that when the crowds leave, and after the vultures have pick
clean, let the gift of snow rest on me. Let it sit pure for just a
while so that I might know peace, beauty, and clean.