Fuyugomori

Year's End

One year ago, I wrote a verse to mark the start of a new book. One like my first, but this time spanning a full year. I began to serialize it with these four pieces, then stopped. A verse whispered in twilight words is answered in mystery. Apropos that time would stop there: a hole through the center where an irresistible force met an immovable object. And apropos of all the wet snow, and my underground again. To break the spell and end the story, I leave the gauze finally to the wind. To rest again in the empty wall’s reflection, “leaning on the staff of an ancient who entered nothingness under the midnight moon”—and do not whisper a thing.

winter solitude —
stepping backward
into the spine