HOLE

Somewhere in these uncertain
geometries lay…

Cranes

I could hope, on the most cloudless
of sunsets…

what were we before we
conjured ourselves into selfhood…

First snow on the cherry tree —
blossoms…

This old man wielding a broom as if he stood before the gates of some great and fragile fortress…

being a man of insufficient malice, I am grateful…

Could it be the ring or the studded moon…

Who then streams from the womb unbroken…