I remember
when body hungered
for the vast

and entered
the closed call
of the hut

a close world
sealed in mist
within the northern expanse

grit
boulder
mountain

held in suspension

the unseen
keeping still

until –

the clatter

stone breaking loose from silence
gravel speaking in descent
far off
across hidden elevations

the landscape
revealing itself
by sound

little by little

inside:

iron
fire
breath

the old stove
eating wood
remembering winters

warmth
entering body

the world
reduced
to what is near

muscle
after distance

then –

the spine

a single book
above the narrow light

white
with red naming

Death and the Penguin

a voice
from elsewhere

entering the closed world
and opening it
so that later
in the returned world
the name remains

Kurkov

like a mark
in the mist