Our road’s no wider than yours. We often fall from the height. We’re broken too, but our lack of attention doesn’t force us to climb the rope again. Your slightest mistake can kill you. 

We are not permitted to linger, even with what is most
intimate. From images that are full, the spirit’s
stream plunges down to others that suddenly must be filled;

You who never arrived
in my arms, beloved, who were lost
from the start,

What birds plunge through is not the intimate space
in which you see all forms intensified.
(Out in the Open, you would be denied

World was in the face of the beloved.
Suddenly it poured out and was gone:
world is outside, world cannot be grasped.

Hidden, wrinkled as a flush violet wedged
Humbly amid the moss, it breathes
Still wet with love that leaves

The mouse is golden,
and so is the turtle, and the spider, 

What’s the reason for your sudden laughter, butcher,
while you stand next to that which only a moment ago was
      living, peeling her skin off as if it were an expensive dress

For whom are you intended, wine in the corked bottle?
Through whose veins will you send your merry little flame

someone who in that instant
is preoccupied with thoughts of suicide
is forced by nature’s call