where everything has been born
in the dark (yourself and myself) in the hour
before dawn and a shiver runs through
and the world’s at its coldest –
hearts beat rapidly
whenever/however we lose
(moment by moment) our network of blood-
kinship and comrades-in-arms and god-myths,
insist the past is a dead-and-buried land
yet somehow familiar
like fresh snow on a street
full of bitter silence that is not beginning
(not ending) and even that door slam,
small voice helloing, car revving,
can’t find its sound
