Fingers become aware of the fear
of blood in my eyes; hair, sun,
wind smooth ***** of pain; sun
to clear the lip of the tongue
and mouth to cool a cup of such
tears; pain in the custody of the
mouth of the slave is the wave
of love, and to love to taste reminds
us of sitting in his voice and filled
with part of it is to use a soft
breeze from the seeds of the moon
to rotate the green space
of the day; we see the laughter
of the sea, it is surely the laughter
of the laughter of the loss.