Is, the definitive
not me when
whose hands(?
)are these
in my hands, Spring?(the grass)
and trees occasionally
mirror the always of
my body as dirt;
there won't be
a day when. I or i shall
go amongst the chansons
of lilies the dilute spell of
life mysteriously. a flense
of an ember parted on
on the parting of a blade
of green and waxy earth
gardens will where gods
do not go and grow
more deep than worms
into each body their roots
as hard as soft as
and light might apparently
become a mote
of your wrists will
pass into the lips
of other lovers
a very tiny song.