The night is ending

into a black winter morning.

It's raining, water

washing off the snow

that fell during the evening.

Back inside I read the poems

of the dead,

in which they still gaze from

long crumbled towers

on the Yangtze

after sails

carrying friends

into fates long forgotten.

Dust, the poets

of the T'ang and the Song,

water the snow

of yesterday, Villon,

all bound together

by the void of non-being

in which our

words sparkle.

11.12.2014