in the darting
or the wooden boxes

all are here,
no lessening in number

slipping away, all are here.
as at the beginning of the world.

you need a calendar
or

woodsmoke
ending what we had begun.

we are all here,
the living and the dead

nor shall
we leave,

the bird sang to itself
under the snow

or in dark caves
we lie in the haunt of the mountain.

moonlight as a pickpocket
moonlight as a heart-rending voice

around the
face

the breath and the purifying
of garments