I go out to move snow. How it sticks
to hay and feathers and shit on the floor
of the chicken-house. How it softens
on the necks of the cows. How heavy
it is, and unwilling to be
approximated for even the clapping
hands of a baby god with glitter
and cornstarch and scentless organic
shaving cream. On the moon
it does not fall. As sugar, as salt, as dust
carried off on the wings of a million white moths,
it refuses to be dissembled—
or as so many small unidentifiable flowers.