The Falling Snow Which Matches My Own Memory Poem by Robert Rorabeck

If read you hear the sirens,
Though they should be turned off to mourn the
Dead,
Maybe I am holding hands with your grandmother
In a game of possessive blue tag:
This is the way we caracole you, summit you
With prayer flags:
And there are no two snow crystals which are perfect
For each other,
But it is enough to memorize the street names which
Caracole you,
To pray for lightning to strike him dead- to pray
To sweet necrotic pervasion:
Because there are shells and ancient coelacanth under
Your vinaigrette stilettos, and this is the way you
Must come whistling under Tesla’s celibate inventions,
Everything upon you medicinal,
A sweet shop if full soiree, and I pray for you in China,
And I dig holes through the sea
Just to peek into your window and see you there,
The falling snow which matches my own memory.