I am not sure you
live anywhere, no
cord of clay holds
you moored.
The air is brittle
and cannot settle
near your attention.
Your cell has
no cloister, for
abandon anoints you.
To what place
belongs the red bush
of your blood?
Who could travel
your mountains of dream,
glimpse gazelles
limp towards dawn,
see flowers
thirst through earth
for dew,