Oaks have narrowed you
against the winter sky, against
some frozen traffic, painted
where you lock mom’s house cold
beneath Ursa Minor. Its light
is blurring a trillion explosions
per second per universe per
the blind great-grandmother, you
have called her home into your masks.

Some of your friends look closer.
They walk your dying body home.
It is wrapping itself deep inside the songs
of sparrows, the stray ones that jabber why
snow is almost a feather, a stash of feathers
without the creature. You begin watching
everything of winter falling towards you again
as if reincarnated beside us without another life.