What birds plunge through is not the intimate space
in which you see all forms intensified.
(Out in the Open, you would be denied

World was in the face of the beloved.
Suddenly it poured out and was gone:
world is outside, world cannot be grasped.

Hidden, wrinkled as a flush violet wedged
Humbly amid the moss, it breathes
Still wet with love that leaves

The mouse is golden,
and so is the turtle, and the spider, 

What’s the reason for your sudden laughter, butcher,
while you stand next to that which only a moment ago was
      living, peeling her skin off as if it were an expensive dress

For whom are you intended, wine in the corked bottle?
Through whose veins will you send your merry little flame

someone who in that instant
is preoccupied with thoughts of suicide
is forced by nature’s call

Between Something and Nothing you chose that which in
      truth is Nothing!

His companions fell asleep on the hawsers in the stern;
and she came, took him by the hand and led him
a little ways above the shore; she lay down beside him

Time slows down, the light smoothes out surfaces, seeps
into old closets, drawers, and underneath the beds;
dries the pillow’s saliva, abrogates the winding of the stairs,