Happy Holidays (poem)

for/after Sawako Nakayasu

Coffee: ice cold and hours. I have written out silence, all thirty-seven minutes’ worth. The children, asleep. Slow-cooker soup is spicy, mute, in constant edit. The tree fell twice but landed once. What does a heart beat. The sentence is always unfounded. Sometimes scattered notes don’t require the poem. We never look like the writing of it.