To talk about the weather is not just passing time
but an occupation in a city where weather
dictates streams of confused syntax like snow
or snow like confused syntax, I have forgotten
and will always forget their "order of appearance."
And to chart the wind's progress is not wasting away
hours but caring for the human form and its fragility
when the elements could wipe away people
and trees with one sweep, an eyelid's denial
of the supposed world outside its globe.