somewhere I am suddenly born
in an expressionless house; when you
cry out the walls give way and

the garden, in which you vanish, is
worn smooth by slugs; you bathe
jerking like a bird, and when the earth

is eaten and the rhubarb first
dries up, summer gives way and
the town, in which you vanish, is

slow and black; you walk in
the streets, do as others do,
wordlessly in passing nudge

bits of brick into place; when the route
is tenacious, ingrained enough, the houses
give way, and the high plain spreads,

sullen, almighty, and almost
invisible; somewhere a wild
apricot tree stands still for a moment

and blooms, but just with a very
thin veil on the outspread branches
before going on regardless