Death

There was snow
inside my father’s house.
All along the walls it
piled two feet high.
It’s on the stairs, it’s
underneath the refrigerator,
it’s in the bathroom sink, in the
beds.
It’s in the fireplace now too. Snow.
And gallons
and gallons of snow’s milk.

His face is white with it
as he asks, “do you believe
in the years?” He coughs and clears snow
from the ears, mouth and from within
the clothes he’s got on. His eyes gurgle and
blink in the snow milk and the eyes
are like dark little holes
in it.

“This is what it is,” he says. “Oh…” he says,
“oh no…Look. I’ve come all clogged with snow
and milk.”