An Archaeology of Snow Forts There’s not much left to be said That some well-washed stone hasn’t heard before. History is composed of broken walls and bad neighbors, Just ask these chips from Berlin, the Parthenon and Cathay Or these cool magma hands of Pompeii, dark and grey. If you listen carefully in the right place On University Avenue, you will learn There is a minor wall near the Yalu River Dancing on the hills of Qin for the moon, Who knows exactly what I mean In every tongue worth mention. She’s moonlighting as a curved garden serpent Coiling around old Laocoon, The Suspicious One with his astute eye, Crooning with a sly wink, “Come, touch true history.” And how the moon must laugh when she spies The tiniest hill in Minnetonka, Where the small hands of the earth have erected A magnificent white wall, A snowy miniature Maginot Raised some scant hours before, Already melting into a hungry, roiling river Who is not yet finished eating Louisiana for brunch.
16
