become lighter,
all moments will shine
if you cut them open,
glisten like entrails in the sun.
The fever grows deeper
into itself, tender-rooted flowers
inside the belly of the horse,
inside the eye of the boy
who again tries to feed it the hay,
gently cups its mouth.
Lost in the forest one night, we find the body
of a wolf, its throat torn open,
the wound a cupful of rippling
black milk, where maggots curl star-white
in their glistening darkness.
The eyes hum with flies, which drone a joy
in the bones, the brain, wander
into the labyrinth through the tongue,
still hanging out in half-howl.
We keep walking, holding out our hands
to feel our way through the dark
as if we could touch as it touches,
know it as it knows the stars
that float in the vacuum of its voice,
that grow brighter and louder
until it unsays them, takes them
back. I know first there was light
to give the void a shape. I know
what has no beginning cannot end.
I can hardly see your face out here
but I can hear you breathing.
Your voice opens and says
I think the path is this way,
floats out, crosses to me
in a little cloud-boat and is gone—
Keep talking. How did the story go?
How dark it was inside the wolf,
which had begun as a clump
of darkness inside another wolf.
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