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WHEN THE SNOW

when the snow
has gone
when it is no more
how will we
ever know
stillness

dipped in
liquid nitrogen
a flower gets
so insanely cold
the slightest touch
has it
disintegrating

I wonder about
uniqueness and
archetype

imagining myself
disintegrating

faster than
I am already

when
the dust drifts

what
stillness?

my death already
glimpsed
in the coldness

of such
a poem