An avalanche exists in the abstract,
A violent snow and ice cataract,
Content without shape, without content,
A proliferation of the absent.
A blizzard wipes the air empty and white
And confuses real things with closed-eye night.
(Formlessness is a natural order,
An extremity without a border.)
The thunderstorm exposes the mountain
With splintering intensity; fountains
Of light define the crag, the slope, the tree —
Revealing only momentarily.
These words (also abstract) erase all forms
From the blankest page — revealing more storms.
With thanks to Jeff Strayer for the Turner suggestion.
My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here: My Human Disguise.
