I remember a snow’s cut and on the lake ‘cross the winter I think of what’s to come in all its rawness, when late night’s dim light, save for the light of a crescent moon, while the last fair rain waits for what’s tomorrow for the stars, whose blinkety blink ‘an slothed arms caress b’fore dawn, as the first shine crawls o’er the cusp of the elbow by my side were I to sleep, as all the land settles in for its soft wail, and the beat, beat of your full heart means no way I’m ever letting you down on any day, yet knowing this day will never come again, less a snow’s cut in the wood and no look in the slaughterhouse, where the collapse of the wood stops our good run of plunk, plunk ‘cross the crisp white to where the Emerald City waits; and I remember most a snow’s cut and on the lake ‘cross the winter, how we walked back to the car together after that, and how those days were so big then and so small now.