A day of unthinkable antiquity. The age
of air. The city finds it is
a sky. At dusk it glows with
the clairvoyance of the wholly poor. The
moon flows over the windows
causing nothing. In the city I feel the
desert's feminine intensity;
a memory in which I am entire. The one
black grasshopper still signing in the weeds.
Each morning a different nudity
and dawn comes with a sound of
far off water. There is no place
that is not the center. There is no place
where I am not being born.