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It's Dark and the Font Is Small Hoag Holmgren
Zazen hollows the hours, the tongue, the requiems for self that rip the knees. A vigil for the snowslide of vast, the vigil itself a kind of slide. How the silence de-squirrels the house. How any cuff of world can offer the one eye. The old refrigerator stumbles through; the old refrigerator sits on the zafu. And on the wall: tiny words you’ve never noticed. Lean forward in the votive light. Your Name Here.