Short Arctic desert day --

and someone left their snow-shoes in

the Tundra.

Look around every which way

but I can't see just where the footprints

go.



Is it a casual disappearance? --

plucked from the middle atmosphere

like straw wind-blown.

No speck on the horizon --

no simple message scrawled

upon the snow.



Unearthly visitation --

someone left their snow-shoes in the

Tundra.

Hungry buzzard flier

circling round and round

rattling death's tambourine.



Have to run it down the cold wire --

late insertion in tomorrow's lost and

found.

Should I spread out searching? --

but I'm a little thin upon the ground.



So I raise my lips to coax

the last drop of brandy from the bottle.

Rest my feet and contemplate

the mystery that's haunting

this Siberian space.



Show-shoes they bind me down --

I'm just one more parasite of the surface

layer.

I begin to get the feeling

I've been on this stage before

and I'm the only player.



One more Arctic desert day --

another set of shoes out in the Tundra

snow.

I make my fade to white-out

and you can't see me where my foot-

prints go