the snow spreads out over the dirty ground,
a sparkling carpet of tread marks
waiting for the impression of your feet--
are they following mine, are you coming at all?
i have walked many miles for you
to get to this night, when your tracks are absent
and your voice is silent, and all your body
is gone, your influences lacking.
i suppose the future is lost, if you do not come;
if you do not come, the future will have to be built
again, brick by brick a building new
with different rooms and different intent.
looking back i can see my tracks in the snow:
a white sheet unbroken, except
for two little feet that shuffle forwards
into a future that might be terrifying,
will be terrifying, but glitters in the streetlights.