Summer Snow

Forever, comes to mind and peaks where the snow stays. James Galvin From the mountain that seemed to rise straight up at the end of the city street´s racket, its heat and black- laced carbon, a wedge of snow lodged in a ravine: White as a skull chunk, but, as the right clock might --giving the wrong time--white as this morning´ milk. And then, this evening, from our bedroom window, I swear, you could see it whitely pulsing, still holding all the day´s light in --would not give it up-- white as a bleached brain scrubbed of all thought, of what this white paper might be but for being marred by thought.