Is not being born, not yet being born,
The same as being dead after having lived?
Why were the children
Gift wrapped and dripping with slime?
How should I know?
The more the wind scours the sapphire sky
The smaller and smaller we get.
A pinkish light falling on everything
Is sounding the shallows of fear
Where nothing grows.
We are walking around a secret intention
That starts out as a general feeling
With fuzzy poles, before a mercurial
Haphazard line can be combed out of it,
A series of curved planks to take you
To the country of half rooms,
Trout seduced by the prelude to night
As they descend from the trees.
An occasionalist keeps it all humming along.
You! Surprise. Subjects, objects
They all reinsert themselves at some point
But they always give way again too.
Like donkeys, like asphodels, like hands