I cannot anymore recall
The laws of paradise—

Afterwards, it was all very quiet.

The ewes began to gnaw
The speckled grass; flush with red,
The frame of the sky rustled.
And so it might have been
A changing season, intermediary
Between certainties—as close
And distant as a lucid dream.

Then, something like wading through linear days,
Or new days in a linear manner—
Sunlight dripped in the hollow
Of my shoulder like a trickle of tears—on my hands
Like a sprinkle of blood—etc.

Ewes and grass—
Dappled trees—

Where summer goes
Winter follows.
Wherever the wind touches the sea
There will be violence.

I have learned somewhat of the nature of things—
When I hold their necks
To guide them, I use my hands.