Winter went somewhere with my soul.
Whatever was known was lost,
and not lost as a leaf is lost in autumn,
its one body stilled in the many-body
of murky sediment on the river’s floor—
what I mean is what was lost got lost
completely, my breath so quiet
inside, no wind touches branches with less
a lightness, no flake of snow falls but its weight
bears a thousandfold burden.
