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Francis Masat

Winter Script

The snow lies fresh and pristine, as if all that it covers is made pure and whole again. Gray in the ambient light of night, it reflects my disappointment at no one being home to greet me. I get back in my car, knowing where to go next.

I put down my pen
the last act
unfinished

Mystery seems to surround the footprints arriving and leaving the hospital, as if some angel or spirit had come to do their gathering. At dawn, as if on cue, the snow stops—there is no encore.

AIDS monument—
ice
in a new name

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