previous | next

This book is so heavy, like an anchor
Sinking onto resurrectionary interpretations
Your face, like the clock on the other shore of the ocean
Is unable to be spoken to
Words have been floating on seas all night
And in the morning suddenly fly high

Laughter falls into an empty bowl
The sun revolves on the butcher’s hook
The first bus of the day drives toward
The post office on the end of the fields
O, in the green variations
Sits the king of departure

Lightning, the postman of storms
Is lost beyond the flowering days
I trail you as close as the shadow to the body
From the classroom to the playground
Under the rapidly growing poplars
We get small, one going east, another west