I live in a separate country, white as the snow
on rooftops and stained glass
windows, the still of the woods
at furthest noon the only thought I have
and morphine skimming my mind, like the first
swallow in the courtyard, high and small
the voice, as if it came
from somewhere else;
and somewhere else, the house of rain and corn
that glimmers in the dark, while I ascend
to morning, warmth
and daylight, like the shirt a man
lies down in, after a long
unshrouding, seams
unstitching in my heart,
the taste of me the taste of something other.