The glaring white empty field blank sky,
the formless thing shaped by impressions
but with nothing to make of it
looks me redshot in the eyes
and strikes at what it sees,
as I have looked myself
and struck it right in front of me,
the glaring white empty mind blank slate,
the formless person shaped by impressions
but with nothing to make of it.
No, I glared back into the white
and saw it in the whipping snow
transgressing me as I transgressed
myself, and did not even know.