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...

it is up to the swallows...

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...

each turquoise hope OR word engendered another...