{an end}

It is snowing - the way grated, bitter tufts of lemon peel

aggregate on a chipped plate -

against the windswept evergreens - which could be

meticulously stitched bonsais on a luxurious kimono -

under their branches the young scuttle - do they wonder

about neural plaques or the cost of an egg, do they marvel

at microscopy or forget to write their names, do they fear

that Alois will knock on their door, their mother’s door,

their mother’s mother’s name . . .

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[Pax]

Fear in beauty's name... Pax