Mark Halperin recites his poems "No Two Snowflakes are the Same" and "Quail in December," talks with Zachary Sussman about the mystery of human identity, and questions our faith in knowledge.

No Two Snowflakes Are the Same
How could anyone have checked, or is this
something else to accept on faith, like enough is enough
or what's good for big business
is good for the country and each time I love
you is said it's different? How do you tell
Africans, for whom it's usual

to substitute egret feathers in
translations: no two plumes are a match, and why
does that sound that less dubious? Once you begin
asking there's the icy cold, the six-sided-
symmetry--too much that's unique to trust
induction. Here the rare returns like dust

you can't brush off and yearnings that go on
to become those persistent selves we resume
each morning as if by magic. The power of reason,
like past and future, could be a myth, and Hume,
be right: cause is no more than an habitual
association. Like doubt, but less cruel.

Quail in December
They're scampering under the birdfeeder
they can't fly up to, pecking at, picking up seeds
the sloppy house sparrows and chickadees --
intent on getting it all -- scatter
half of in their frenzied digging. Each quail
sports a question-mark, an ebony curl
that sticks up from its forehead and bobs,
waggles and wiggles as it does, off at a sound
or shadowy sign of danger. Rotund,
as if puffed-out and stuffed, they're gobs
of freckles with slate-gray backs, as single
as slippery drops of mercury that re-pool
again. The one that slammed into
the guest room window -- with such force,
it broke the outer thermopane-glass
and its neck -- left a double halo
of feathers and slivers. May whatever directed it
grant serious us as quick and painless an exit.