I cross the border and I return.
I cut you with a knife.
Maple leaves dry like steel spikes strapped over the wall
keeping the light dancing only in your room.
You wash bandages in the afternoon.
I walk your dog.
Now to the children:
When a man and a woman go inside the room – like this,
close the door – like that, lock-lock,
breaking the wave to a wild cataract festering this
new soft nature in your eyes.
Spines alight, mumble and moan,
her quick mouth opening like an urn.
He in turn siloing the instruments, chime and brine
at the soft pain that collects her, breaks her,
collects her, only to break her again.
Now, what do you say my friends?
Aha- thank you my friends!
You float planets in your beak and craw to death.
The ring in your palm is another lost circle
another night spent alone rolling moonlight on your fingernails.
You tread the madness inside.
I tread your birth.