--Charles Wright
Last night’s stars and last night’s wind
are west of the mountains now, and east of the river.
Here, under the branches of the nine trees,
how small the world seems.
Should we lament, in winter, our shadow’s solitude,
our names spelled out like snowflakes?
Where is it written, “the season’s decrease diminishes me?”
Should we long for stillness,
a hush for the trivial body
washed in the colors of paradise,
dirt-colored water-colored match-flame-and-wind-colored?
As one who has never understood the void,
should I
give counsel to the darkness, honor the condor’s wing?
Should we keep on bowing to
an inch of this and an inch of that?
The world is a handkerchief.
Today I spread it across my knees.
Tomorrow they’ll fold it into my breast pocket,
white on my dark suit.
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