Pastures still drink in resistance
they begin and progress beyond singularity
there’s wanting in the midst.
But come, assemble for burial, taste lights
the roughcast water filled from our roots in the sea
swept by the emptied wind
What type of knowledge is this
that continues its being until full of cancellations
and windows — that type of intensity?
Didn't a track barely leave pain behind?
What is the first colour of enchantment?
The prosperity of the unburied lies in the allure.
Here on the hour that ascends gradually
there’s a disturbance of glass in the thickness
there’s desire in melting honeydew.
The present of the city doesn’t exist as façade
so where is the other extremity of the chain?
Grass still downs a dispersion of abundance.
Stood shivering in a night at the other end of the line.
Once there was plenty of time to drink up
as usual, as though afraid of being heard.
Would I be bored by a drained windswept pool?
What more could I eat beside it?
What am I responsible for: lights, water, the ruffled ocean?
To have left scarcely a trace of pain behind
what kind of knowledge is that?
Nor is it complete to this day.