Nocturne

The pure flood will not burst from us.We must make do with these muddy dropsdrawn at length out of stone.

A schoolboy climbs a tree at recess, robsa nest, crushes the sky-colored eggs.

Blood seeks its own release.

That's a nice story, the one about change.We are what we are born to be:

the madman tallying devils and pigeons,Siamese twins afloat in a bell jarwaiting under velvet for the carnival to start.

There are no seasons, only inertiashedding or taking its veils.

Evening wells up from the asphodels' throats.

It was strong wine they were drinking,those sailors who first gave the starshuman sorrows to guide themselves home.

We needn't dwell on our returning.The sea is crawling up the street.

A key turns in the lock.