so the thought goes on recyclingitself

the village is lost in its veilsa few dreams lean over the lanes likenettles

and bodiless black lace woods inwhich one to another a songbird asksis it light is it lightnot quite

wet and sweet like stewed apples thismust be the heart this is only a dream

when a man rolls over and sighs

very nearly anonymous nowhaving recently turned five thousandwith the same wedge of yearninglodged in my chest as everand getting accustomed tosurviving like a bramble very goodat growing anywhere you ought topraise me for this trailing bloom

examining thewhole horizonless question of desire

this must be the heart this must bemy innermost thought this is onlya dream

I thought I heard myselfbeing looked for what is it I saidwhat is it madam that you wish toimply