Merry Christmas! Happy New Year!
As always. The old habit of keeping
addresses in a notebook: a quarter-
century of life that doesn’t recur
or maybe recurs in another space.
It expires. Christ! Zarathustra.
Buddha. It’s time to rewrite them,
to erase the dead, some kindled heart-fiber —
now absorbed, grown into paper,
bones merged with snow.
Some curiosity, some vanity. O Derrida,
how do you defer, how do you write
your death, when the present is silent,
the devoted choir become mute,
how do you defer my death? If Jesus
was born at five, then I will wake
even earlier, at four, believe me.