"The stray corpse of a snowman
sinks into the mud. The rain has stolen
his face and a testimony melts in his mouth"
I have spent the afternoon in 1961,
and out on the quad I think I witness
Adolf Eichmann building a snowman.
I stand amongst a wreath
of antlered trees.
The hills, cave-coloured,
blue with rain, seem
to sway like kelp.
I dreamt about my uncle's death last night.
Not about my uncle. He was already dead when the dream started.