Parading

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

you are still summer

It is stranger than all strangenesses,

Animals with no names. I send them off