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Removing colour from my thoughts, I formed a winter ball I threw it The dead were uncounted There was a distinct lack of emotion A decreasing range of accountability My histories became few Then one I wanted it to be like life, but I had nine, eight, seven micro-seconds with which to work I went to shape it, and sprang it on you No criminal consciousness No automatic compensation No new aftermath I can’t count, but I try   I am at home behind me My history is an international house of calling cards I fail to connect because I am dead or dying It is surprising I once considered skiing, skating, sliding, until finally I sat exhausted with my hat on Gloves on Long scarf and boots on The centre of my house, on balance, is sub-zero I peel off my socks and warm them in the microwave I place my feet on a pillow I wonder if this is like life Colossal subroutines amass and disseminate above me Then I’m right back up again, multihued historian among the clouds