BURY YOUR FACE IN YOUR HANDS

BECAUSE we have crossed the river and the wind offers only a numb uncoiling of cold and we have meekly adapted, no longer expecting more than we have been given, nor wondering how it happened that we came to this place, we don’t mind that nothing turned out as we thought it might* There is no way to clear the haze in which we live, no way to know that we have undergone another day. The silent snow of thought melts before it has a chance to stick. Where we are is anyone’s guess. The gates to nowhere multiply and the present is so far away, so deeply far away.