by J. A. Tyler
The Other, he is a rain of snow. Patches of ice, the dip and bend of leaves and snow. The green heavy in white, the glacial move of heaping. And the man was nothing of snow, nothing of cold. He was sweat and summer, hands gripping ungripping wood. Building up and on. The man in opposition to the blackness, to the white, the winter, the unbreathing state of himself, in a bed, the gray coming on, the dying. His Other is his snow. His Other is his unsummer, his unsweating limbs. The downturn of his mouth. Femurs chilling. His Other is his unbreathing, his still chest, his closed eyes. White with watching. Silent in blanketed waiting. And the man, dying, his summer closes out. Snow as his Other, piling in drifts.