Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.

I would like a simple life / yet all night I am laying / poems away in a long box.

Perhaps I am no one. True, I have a body and I cannot escape from it. I would like to fly out of my head, but that is out of the question.

I tell you what you’ll never really know: all the medical hypothesis that explained my brain will never be as true as these struck leaves letting go.

Let there be seasons so that our tongues will be rich in asparagus and limes.

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes in the stone boats. They are more like stone than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.

Today God gives milk / and I have the pail.