The womb Rattles its pod, the moon Discharges itself from the tree with nowhere to go.
My landscape is a hand with no lines, The roads bunched to a knot, The knot myself,
Myself the rose you acheive—-This body, This ivory Ungodly as a child’s shriek. Spiderlike, I spin mirrors,
Loyal to my image, Uttering nothing but blood—- Taste it, dark red!
And my forest My funeral, And this hill and this Gleaming with the mouths of corpses.

