Go,
Go be dead then!
Among the daffodils you bought when I was ill,
Among all the loss of October
I will turn my back.

There are no restless dead.
There are no pigeons there,
I seem to forget.

Wanting so much often feels like wanting nothing at all.
Now I think, I was never starving, only hungry.
That is who I am

I keep my eyes zipped up in a box
I let water rule me
I never let you touch me.

I sold myself to spring
But I am never happy enough to love you.

For I just speak in words,
And that is all.

And I draw it out-
I pretend to be a wave,
But I am nothing but real
Crisping and drooping
But definitely not dying.

“The green branching fig tree”
What else?- the bitten apple?

Anyway, it is

The dream to feel everything,
The feeling of my own petals crisping
The loss of October
The first crocuses
The dejection
The rejection.

Go,

Go and be dead then,
Go and rot
I will turn my back.