because erasing finds the poem

Through dark on light to light,
			a welcome sleight of hand.
It’s not the culture I’m aiming at,
not the print, not the Hokusai;
it’s nothing.

Clear December dawn erases
the night but not the cold, erases the stars.  Mt. Fuji,
impassive, and the waves,

locked in ink, taped to my wall.

The open window permits a chill
to harass me with shivers.
Cold sleep.  Light
		     wakes me.

Weariness delivers me
			under the wave off Kangawa.