I wet my hair with mountain snow.
The world’s incredible smoothness
lulls me. The moon is gone. The child
and her ocean are silent. Still.
Asleep, so desperately asleep.
The moon is gone and it is like forgetting
the face of a loved one
who hated you.
Without a ripple, the ocean secedes.
The mountain grows and grows and the snow
takes away. It buries the jade stars. It buries
the lost night sky, the wandering emptiness.
It buries the child, and she sleeps on. The world
is cold midnight silk.
Handful by handful, my hair whitens.