Your skin so fair. Song asleep in the woods. Horizon
falling under horizon. Run through the woods and dark
briars. Open your face and run through it. Run to the
horizon and the horizon under it. Leave me nothing but
flowers in the window without water. Leave me piles of
rabbits. Here we are nothing. Here you are running
through your own face and the horizon. A song asleep in
the woods. The white rabbits are dead. Are they dead?
Bury them in your open face. And why does ravel and
unravel mean the same thing? Lie down. We are only
pieces. Where are you going with gravel in your shoes?
YOUR DRESS MAKES A NICE LANTERN
But the wild dog’s still hungry, lost and running in the
field where you stand every night for one hundred years,
a half-face, gauzy dress. You clutch all that you own. You
are an outline, a strand of light draped across a new bone.