Posted on 19 April 2010

He swings in a pair of arms
He still has not seen spring or summer.
This is your person, this is his fear,
And his new light body.
There will never be this much water
But there will probably be lots of snow.
Trace the line in the palm
To the third century.
From the window an inverted light floats to the bed,
But can we know how it is turned,
Or perhaps it is just a comet’s shard
Crowding the pupil like a grain of grass.

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