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.