Each day I go further into the woods.
They fall before me like a
Without stars, and without a curve.
It goes on the ocean, now.
And at night I fly so deeply into myselfI become still.
I shine under the
Like the lost child you
Beneath the ice on the one day of the
You decide to go skating.
Whoever it is that holds me, my one friend,
Is only a flowing of blood:
And blood spreads like branches in summer,
The leaves shading a house where the
Sleep, and the birds keep their
From other birds, and it is the world.
It is the world— and where the ground was hard,
I helped bury its dead,
Hacking past rocks and roots untilI found a place, even for them.
There is no moral to my story.
From the outset,
I gleamed, like a sea.
