The Snow, Man

One must have a mind of Hitler

And been alone a long time

Not to hear one’s own flatulence in the wind;

To behold the junipers shagged with vice

In the distant glitter like January Jones

And not to scoff at one’s so-called love life;

And be crusted with crap, not to see

Any hilarity in the life of a squirrel,

In the lives of a few squirrels,

Which is the life of the mind

Full of the same souvenirs

Buried and reburied in the same bar,

For the ditherer, who dithers in the snow,

And, blotto himself, beholds

Nut that is not there and the nut that is.