Always winter, walking from the wastelands
followed by a gust of wind that changes my direction.
I breathe deep the cutting cold cloaking the day and think
there must be a warmer place, where bridges burned lead nowhere
anyway, leaving only smoke in your eyes and oxygen
depleted to feed a fire soon forgot.

I have no need for arms or legs to get me here
or back, movement without velocity, waking where
I’ve never been. I burn my image in the snow to leave
a small remembrance when I go, a hole through the snow
where I stood staring.