falling in Austria and the Himalayas, deliquescing into the dirt of Russia,

unloading its burden of soot and dust from the coal plants, the coalfields and pits

of Prokopyevsk, Kiselevsk, Leninsk-Kuznetski, their soldiers deliquescing into the local cemetery,

returned from Afghanistan, Chechnya, Ukraine—black snow, the words sound so pretty, like black apples

from Arkansas, or the Black Diamond apple of Tibet, stained purple by sunlight, expensive and rare,

or black ice, which is treacherous, near-invisible— words like glory and country, Motherland,

Fatherland, what do they mean, does it depend, what do they depend on, what tree or cross or bridge hang from

while black snow falls on Greenland, its glaciers deliquescing, another word I love, though not

what it means, what it portends, while the wind spins another cluster of dead leaves from a limb

and a man in a faraway office leaves work for his home and fire, and ice deliquesces into his glass of gin.

And what about the stars? They’re already char and the moon is a miner’s lamp to light the workers

forever going down and in.