1717 c/o Dennis James Sweeney

Before us, there was —

There are fields and fields of empty
snow. Blankets. White

canopies on every line. Before us, there
was nothing. There is still

nothing. Blankets. Empty
snow in suffocated blanks. It

distresses us tremendously that the same things
went on before we were there to see them:

it cannot be that it did not matter then,
for it does now and…only…if a tree

falls in the thick of snow and the snow
melts, will it matter that anyone

set foot there ever again? Animals once,
heathens. Blankets. Blind.