The whiteness surprised them. Suddenly it
Flooded the frozen clastic floor. Held in
Tow by this cross country, by this carpet
Of light, the skiers slid along the grain

Now but charmed snapshots, turned to twice again
In each dark room. They'll sift through, bit by bit
Sweet stark details, bitter warmth in the brain.
These paths crossed there that day, yet etched a fate

(Or fate's after-image) après ski. Late
And soon, their silent ironic shuffle
Treads (freeze-frame) across the skull of a lake
Their thoughts whispered by clouds —that's all

That's left. Oh, and the naked trails they've sewn:
Melting tapestries seized as phenomenon.