The mare of sorrow,
she drinks from the well...

Butterflies, butterflies
here and there...

(for Ben Picard)
We no longer learn from one another...

Still she waits.
Still she burns...

And the lover cried out—
I burned my youth...

The hands of the clock
are not accidental...

They made this world
out of corporeal shapes...

My hands upon yours,
upon you...

Motions multiply
between the facing mirrors...

Tomorrow’s pantry,
I fed on stored-up wanting...

Annihilation of proportions,
zero before the count...

Behind the vastness of my scars,
scarcely lives a man...