In losing everything
we are given
small things to hold,
in space
the pure curve of a bird
late in the afternoon
above the river that I
have not seen
for three months.
all of the water
that I no longer know
leaves me, from this point
carrying small pieces
of the stones, the same
trees, bird calls which
have thawed again
and again-
I move into
this cold season
quietly, seeing without
wanting things otherwise
for once
and I am given
one leaf, and one
silvered cigarette box
bright against
the frozen earth.

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