[Snowball fights in the middle of midnight]

Snowball fights in the middle of midnight,
infinite infinity-drifts carved by cars in snow so white,
your mother's eyes'd explode if you tried to show'er.
And someone, somewhere, died before the minute was over.

And being that this is my winter and my youth,
my blank stare (...), ego pout, and scarecrow stroll,
My raisons d'etre, my viva Italia, my carpe diem,
My poetry, it can also be my New York, seeming

so that someone somewhere died with somewhys and somehows
against its will--it oblivious to this againsting--building heavens of boughs
fallen to the snow, and smiling in ignorance at the black-cloaked being,
and everything it left left it before it left everything.

And the pianos are fading while the violins still rise,
and someone's half-thoughts half-awake might sometime surprise
those whom are grieving for its dying consciousness--
"those" only being the beings it'll miss.

Now 'those' grieving beings leave it to be
on its own, in this quiet--'those' leave it to sleep.
But it can't sleep--too restless--and a bright epiphany
blinds its mind; now undenying still dying: it is (somehow) me.