In December, when draughts solidly
freeze and the lanterns
swing and linger, I go home.
The swinging pulls me.
Like a ricochet, a rocket, a see-saw,
a jig-saw, the swaying slowly
rocks me to the right position.
What lays loose and long before me are
a series of alphabets, snow-deep, marked against
the white. Deep-driven linguistic structures
in the snow.