So Lost
When
the fox trots in the snow,
the
days of it, whiteness, blankness, so lost in it…
As
I am also in the labyrinth of your hair, the contours of your body,
so
lost am I that my ancestors had no names, were unknowable,
like
fractals, like sugar, sometimes in it, and sometimes within it,
and
days, and weeks of it, the snow, the forgetfulness…
The
weather of our lives, what is disguised in it.
The
form of the fox, at his nose tip a snowflake,
With
the wind whipping the snowflakes around him and he is so lost!
So
lost I am in the realm of your voice,
your
pleased smile, the love. It’s a gift, the necessary gift like a dowry.
And
so, when the fox comes to the edge of a village,
to
see smoke and steam rise from the chimneys the houses come alive,
he
then knows no childhood shame, nor any shame,
and
so, he dreams of warm rough bread and hot ale,
that
through the years a fox could do worse,
and
a man, the infinitely sad creature, if not this,
all
this which he has done, which now seems to have been necessary,
and
to forsake this, he could do worse, a lot worse
than
to be lost, so lost in it, the blankness of the page,
that
somehow the aroma of bread can rise from it…
Koon
Woon,
Circa
2004