Poem

woven nettle and laurel crown

and laurel crown and woven

cloth and thistle down and broken

nettle into garland bound

and something unexpected:

a bead, a jewel, a fragrant cloth

in the grass abandoned, a moth

and a moth, and a month, or a mouth,

or is it a month, yes, all torn out,

when to open a door drops

the dusty wings to the ground

in their stupid clamor among

what else I forgot: logic’s knot,

a thought between consecutive

wounds, or the wound, a wound

between these thoughts: this child

that lets the baby doll drop

and says to it now, now, now

you’re asleep, now the baby’s asleep:

a grass pillow and a grass bed and

the apple tree’s tympanum waiting

for a little wind and a little wind

posts the useless news: the sun

has not yet, not yet, been removed.