solstice a few hours old, the winter is in us.
cold cut out like eternity, like a hard rock or solid ground. the
bloodless mid-afternoon sun seeping into the threshold
of the new studio opens memory on memory, like an
old newspaper. have i really lived so little? why do books
not speak of me?

i know that we will disappear without a sound,
wisps of white clouds, carried away like a leaf.
so i sit here, learning the names of things.
no, not the names we give them. their real names -
what they call themselves when
they think we are not listening.