There is no fame in our commune.Everyone has the same minimalistic bedroom,the same dim twinkle lights.Shivering swirls of pink dustsing to the edges of the past.Our fireplace is perfectfor the creation of shadows.We forge memory through forest.We watch the seasonal retreat of birds.Much is alive without realizing.Recede through your mind into a rocking chair.Recall snow’s sophisticated blankness, sudden in your