I walk on in the snow. I’ve closed My eyes, but the light knows how to breach My porous lids. And I perceive That in my words it’s still the snow That eddies, thickens, shears apart.

Snow, Letter we find again and unfold: And the ink has paled and the bleached-out marks Betray an awkwardness of mind Which makes their lucid shadows just a muddle.

And we try to read, we can’t retrieve from memory Who’s taking such an interest in ourselves—unless It’s summer again; unless we see the leaves Behind the snowflakes, and the heat Rising from the absent ground like mist.

Translated from the French by Hoyt Rogers