It's been another good year.
I pitchfork my poems into the air
over and over until the black grains
of letters pile up into never before
thought of things. All winter I'll pound them
into dust and bake from that the black bread
of meaning which is leavened by death
and is its source and devourer.
After I've winnowed the poems, the wind
will seem to have blown the seeds
right out of oblivion. But it is only taking life
from life, the many from the one, which is how
I came to be and is what I have done.