there is nothing to be done about the ending of anything but,
mountain, no mountain, mountain
it hurts to see you change your status
to see that the candle, the cider, the flame are the same color.
the new wood is too wet for burning
this new light too atmospheric to walk out into
if only the smoke would stop lingering in the cedar trees
reminiscent of silent movie scenes.
the daylight and the moonlight are the same
they breathe the same breath onto the single paned windows
onto the cheap lacquered palms of photocopied saints
promising grapes, promising fish, promising the separation
of night and day, want and distance.
the dulcimer chimes in the attic without being touched
it is still beautiful, breaking or speaking, self-animate.
the moon wishes for a kimono of floral print
to wear on cold nights without clouds
when will the light stop fading
the wax is tired and upsetting the paper.
