Chaff

They are like chaff which the wind blows away.
They are like snow which the wind
flings around as if weightless.
They are like wind which the snow articulates.

They are wicked.
They are packaged in helmets
and jackets and iridescent goggles
like the eyes of bugs.

They enjoy
the ever-finer gradations of
delight in the unnecessary.
They are moving

with speed in relation to snow.
They are dangled mechanically
over the trees. They are fast,
faster, fastest, even their tiny ones,

encased in pink, learning
to point themselves downward,
at peace on the dominated mountain.
In a restaurant like a treehouse

the snow
blows across a terrace
where gas burns to warm the winter.
Inside, slippers.

— batfish