-
O bed of oxygen, divine surge. Be also brackish sea. Be
-
I don’t expect the light
-
Try to praise the mutilated world.
-
That pale softness. What would more mean?
-
It wants to open itself,
-
Writing is what the dreams eat.
-
And this: that one opens itself, like a lid
-
No matter how close two sensations, passing from one to another pink is the slice
-
In your litany of glass boxes
-
Ferns of language pressed into the soft wax cylinders of
