XVII

Metaphor has died.
Nothing resembles anything else.
The smallest fraction of each atom engrossed in the task of accomplishing its minimum commandment. To endure, every morning, the effort of being no matter what. The exhausted anatomy of an elm... The contorted stubbornness of pines... The innocuous whiteness of the ice over the lintel.
The urine of the neighbor's dog traces a groove in the snow. Insignificant. No more
than all of the rest. No more
than this rash will the unavoidable insanity
           of this attempt.