The hen bird sits squatty on a branch
Feathers fluffed up against the snow
The late November light declines
Thin straggles of light, like Tibetan
Prayer flags, amid the skeletal trees
People hunch up, faces down, hurry
Into the electric-cave they call home.
For me anything is better than this self
Deception. I am defamiliarized, glinting,
Illuminating inner correspondences, lonely
Preoccupations. Memories float to the surface
Holy ghosts occupy my fragile consciousness
Stand within a circle of fire, as my ancestors
Saw through the mist, the solely separate self.