Comments about Morgan Michaels
Up slides the blind and out of remotest heaven
from a perlmutter sky
falls the pure, the Brownian, upward drifting snow
casually but surely, in high-blown whorls;
on the rail has settled a bluish inch.
'It's cold', croaks the bird, on yellow, thin legs,
so I rise. Snow fills last years rifts and sifts
on sticks and galls and nodes of last years'