Only a little way the dead come with us
wanting to live in their names spoken out.
The wind follows its footprints.
I sleep in the owl’s coveting watch.
This is the feel of belonging to no place:
the gods come loose from their stones.
No man can drink all of the water.
Think of the ice frozen a thousand years.
When I draw you why do you pose so
unless I am taking something away?
All the facts are breaking apart.
The jetplanes are sowing dead grass.
If the dance takes an age I shall dance,
if my sleep lasts a minute.
Write it all down, enough for a postcard.
Pick someone at random and send it.
Send it away from you. Let them burn it.
Let them feed it to cattle.