all my days are laid out in front of me in lines of flight
all my days are lightly dispersed in front of me
i have my time laid out in tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
and where is my time today

i have my time in the ten hours of light in december
i have my time in the sunset of four in the afternoon

there is time in the pages i read printed made physical so i can underline
the time hidden


an organisation of all manifestations of selves
monotonous block of differentiation
all just supply and all relation
princess, subject, mother, daughter, are things forgot
for every woman alone thinks she has got
to be a phoenix, and that then can be
none of that kind, of which she is, but she

what is awake are the children on the streets striking
lightning and smoke
everything exists but consumed by smoke and confusion and
drooping eyes looking futuring

there is no health; physicians say that we
at best enjoy but a neutrality
and can there be worse sickness than to know
that we are never well, nor can be so?
we are born ruinous: poor mothers cry
that children come not right, nor orderly
except they headlong come and fall upon
an ominous precipitation