The mirror, too full of arid reflection,
fogs in the cold of this cabined air.
Blowing the night’s embers,
drawing a small fire with the morning paper
-unable to boil water,
 
I am left to warm in the force of the day;
carried by consciousness, which neither
waits nor cares, loving only itself,
impenetrable as earth; the solid earth,
swept by frozen air,
burning with small fires,
swinging in a selfless void.