Tuesday

I left the house today. My snow man has begun to melt, his face sagging, drowning in all this white, leaning slightly as if to say, “Ah, oblivion! Some cruel god has cast me into form, and finally… release!” A dog or something has carried off the beret, and he faces his fate bareheaded and humble. If only it were that easy. The sun cannot deliver us anymore than the moon, or the indifferent array of stars. If only he were aware of the value buried deep within, capable of its deliverance notwithstanding ruin. If only…