Treasure Island

David Berman

(4 January 1967 / Williamsburg, Virginia)

Snow


Walking through a field with my little brother Seth

I pointed to a place where kids had made angels in the snow.
For some reason, I told him that a troop of angels
had been shot and dissolved when they hit the ground.

He asked who had shot them and I said a farmer.


Then we were on the roof of the lake.
The ice looked like a photograph of water.

Why he asked. Why did he shoot them.

I didn't know where I was going with this.

They were on his property, I said.


When it's snowing, the outdoors seem like a room.

Today I traded hellos with my neighbor.
Our voices hung close in the new acoustics.
A room with the walls blasted to shreds and falling.

We returned to our shoveling, working side by side in silence.


But why were they on his property, he asked.

Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003

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  • Omri Rosen (10/21/2004 7:56:00 PM)

    I first picked up 'Actual air' today, I became so infatuated with this poem.

    It's really marvelous, and the use of blank lines is excellent.
    I translated it into hebrew, that's how excited I am. (Report) Reply

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