After reading the FBI files

"you are as many as the flakes of snow," hard to think, so many, each one's lazy
fall and drift of circumstance, a fingerprint of heaven, it would be wrong to think
about this that this, you have been carefully instructed, the weather here is
different, all reports are clear warnings of snow that goes on falling and falling,
erasing again the lines just cut from the doors of private houses to the public
streets, obliterating paths, frostbite is a loss of feeling in one’s extremities, or a
hand freezes to a fence gripped to keep the body from falling, why did you think
you could sleep in the snow, lie down in its languorous embrace, foetal as a
snowflake or like that woman in New Jersey who lost her toes for being unable
to curl herself up small enough to fit on the steam grate, did the cold arrive in
your veins like warmth, if the snow's embrace shocked your cells open to
tropical transpirings, that was just the rapture of hypothermia, a gushing in the
veins so chilled the snow arrived like warmth, what are you thinking of, don't
you know it's wrong to think as you are, you are, I know you are, thinking about
this that this, learn to read the weather rightly to consider the hours of the
snow, snow's not scraps of paper devoid of any word except the ash particle,
the cindered mote that coalesces that lazy architecture around its invisible eye,
you could freeze out there, not that I care, it's just faulty thinking, that's all, why
did you think you could sleep in the snow, you could lose your extremities, your
fingers, in some cases the tip of your nose, if someone in an office is writing
and writing, the names as many as the flakes of snow piling up in drifts, that
new names are falling on the drifts of the names that were, just yesterday,
dumped in empty lots, heaps of white, heaven’s flesh already turning to exhaust
and ash with the city’s grime sweating from the air, now turning newly white
again with new accumulations, oh name that turns to a drift of snow, it’s better
not to think of what makes the mind so cold, able to discern with x-ray vision
the underlying death sentence that this one deserves, or that one, hard to
consider, so many, sentences purging within, each one's lazy fall and drift of
circumstance, a singer, a finger print of heaven, read the finer print, the egotist
in that one, 'too preoccupied with success' 'can be bought with various _______'
'documents of a compromising nature,' 'overheard to say on May 15th' is this
coldness as natural in the hand that wields it as a skin, sky, filling with snow?
you should not think in the way you do of these intersections of snow, none of
this intersects in you, that's just a village of people who did not know they were
neighbors vanishing in the snow, you'll have to get up out of that drift and try to
find your way home, what were you thinking of, trying to sleep in the snow, this
direction, in that one, follow the street signs, it's just a snowstorm, making the
air warm, after the snowplows do their work, follow the science of the
meteorologists, impartial thinkers, they know what they're saying when they
say afterwards will follow the realm of frostbite, the diminishments of cold

Rebecca Seiferle
10:41 Waltham MA 1/