DAVID HINTON

Thought gone

dark needs
nothing more of it-
self, needs dark

alone woven ink-
black through blackened
light. It’s an ancient
tool, this gathering—

basket of shadow, and it
glistens still with

use. Hummingbird’s
quick glint, crow’s winged
fleck of
night: these last
few things

slip vanishing
through, leaving
again this dark
harvest of origins.