In the murk the Way advances as the knife of the slow word - in the murk there is a mark that breathes which poem gets lost in that breath? the knife of the slow word cuts only when the river flows - I collect quills and count moons - where the worries are taken to pitch and the quills remain, there I anchor my poem -
I do not know its name– Lao Tsu
I style it “Tao”
Until her knife had pared– Sylvia Plath
The moon to a rind of little light.