The air is a blank piece, a tragedy, to colour in.
We will bring the air with us to the ocean floor and roll
there, on fire. That which breathes into me also
clings to the depth, makes the ridge, and will land again.
The fossils of the primitive winter are circles in the rock
and will lead us to the place where we will all be drawn wrong.
Beneath the sea the dream, and the dream that we are
moves amongst the clouds, blows them here. Your womb
has lived on in its own faint blood and will continue to do so
until blood itself comes to drown. And then went down the
centuries, arms stretched out to survive, and this December
built strong to emerge from the ice and burst forth will, also, survive.
And so once more flame shall be bent by flame
and the future is a dream, an oracle, to consult in war alone.