angel of dying

to remember you is to remember rooms
your conversations awaken schizophrenia
I remember the snow, alive, like chaff
separated by your swinging arms

I find myself fallen, on a xmas course
the plurals of cold take my pain
your imprecisions are a code I cannot understand
your words are, at best, knives


I think I published another version of this in the spring. This is the original version. I will have to go through everything and see if this is phantom memory. The poem itself is pretty clear, relating the subject to the snow angel and to homicide.