the wind kicks up
early this morning
as if hastening
to complete some solemn task
sneakers on a wire
flickers
hammering away
the hillside
awash with cloudlight
this world of appearances
her persimmon stick
polished to a high luster
fixed with a leather grip—
its tap-tap-tapping,
the last sound before sleep
a leaf
is no less than
the journeywork of the stars . . .
into the luminous river
her lantern goes
her voice
in the whitewater
a twilight mosquito
buzzes in and out
of what might have been
folding the sheets
in the winter dusk
pleat
upon pleat
this well-worn life