The sun flits behind dormant clouds
it is nervous today
The waves will crash onto the beach
this is my theatre
My mother holds me
we have discussed nothing
I will confess to the fish
and sail on their fins
Seas will not taste of salt
but of honey
We will not bury the dead
they continue to fight
Only the living will be buried
they will capture the underworld
I will learn miniature languages
and settle hysterical birds
All days are now compressed
by the sand blown paths
these lines need not be read in the order noted