Dear company too rare drives off
and leaves me waiting
for the next thing
knowing all at once
the next thing will be me
An empty house on winter fields
where echoes are the only
kindred voices that I hear
the blue-veined hand
writes self self self
To be complicit with the wind
with snows among bare trees
in a border kingdom of the mind
buoyed on the hush between lines
sometimes is enough.
