Mysteries of Memory

30 December 1960, Cambridge, Massachusetts

Soundless rhythmless snow’s

                       unbroken blossom-shower.

The entire world is strewn

with white flowers, like a corpse. And then

you’re nowhere to be seen.

Everywhere I hear your name being called,

tracks of searching feet open up in the whiteness, deep

like mysterious depressions. . .

A green shrub gradually

turns into a white stone hill.

Looking in that direction, I know you can’t be seen.

                                   Time’s snows falling without limit,

                                   without respite. Dressing up

                                   the corpse of the present

                                                           in the mysteries of memory,

                                   we’re drowning, we’re losing ourselves,

we’re being blotted out.