Nobody has got so scared as I, for some reason,
Nobody can have caught sight of melancholy exuded by the cells.
The cells of onion skins,
Cells of strands of hairs of fail-grade and top-grade pupils,
The whole class of cellular beings,
Including the view from the window . . .
Suddenly the protective layer has been stripped from the universe,
The path to the house becomes alien.
And the house with all its rooms.
But further off
Dubious alien parents
At dubious work . . .
What melancholy. What spell-casting.
Silent film seen under the microscope.
It’s as though
God calls up something for your eyes
But still won’t tell you the main thing.