As if
each could be articulated,
as if each could be learnt,
repeating on the tongue –
fifty-two times over –
then labelled and kept
in a frozen book, or sliced
in half and studied close
to the ball of the eye,
until the eye felt each
pattern’s freezing for itself.
Or as if each could be colour-
coded so there would be
fifty-two different colours
for snow, imagine. Or
scented, so there would be
fifty-two different perfumes, separate
then mingled in the air.
Or maybe handled, blindfold,
so the words had texture
which your finger tips
would decipher tentatively, one
by one. Then later
each would be dreamt,
fifty-two different dreams,
each like a separate
room which you opened
with a different key,
walked into its silence,
then into the next,
the next after that,
realising that every room
was different, every room
the same. Then you’d wake
to the blankness of white
and all the words falling.