Your skin is not a history of seeing
but of being seeing.

So heavy it has grown around the questions
which live in this postulate world as birds.

Inconstant and full of chatter
One season they built a nest in you
near the sea,

diving and disappearing
as the plover does through a wave
to return upon freshly turned earth
a robin.

O lidded One,
what is this heat which would bear sit  
with plain silence on kitchen tables.