Parading

We don’t know why we speak,

The whole is not the sum of its parts,

Like a wild swan

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