The prize of gathering . . .

                                                           The prize of gathering and ordering an entire body
                                                       So your tongue moves in solitude
Your words give off the others you know nothing about
                                           You have crossed through loneliness
                                                         Living energy of Intelligence
                                                                    How should they love you
                                                                                 Whitish belly

                                                                        Experience has gradually saddened
                                                                   You speak for them
                                                     You cross over again
                                                                                       Would you ever expect not to hurt?
                                                           I should sleep I would like to sleep
                                                                 Can metaphor kill pain
                                                                             You miss the nameable dead horribly
                                                                             Seldom drumming

                                                                        I don't know
                                        Mourning lost bed warmth
                                                              Your solitude is strangely companionable.
                                              Isolated black streaks
                                                There is no one to tell in

                                                                There's nothing to say

                                                          Usually a simple movement
                                     The impress of reason
                                                          This love vague and necessary
                                                 your rainbow eyes
                                                          and all the time you are
                                                        Where you could say the dead are
                    You have to go back, with ink in your mouth
                                     In quick-sand dreams

                                    Nature as a mirror or reflex of the intelligence of man
                                                 a guiding thread

                              quite natural for them
                                                           you can
                        no plagiarism in love and knowledge
                              Your hair stands on end