He walks at the sun every morning, and at night
he looks up, from the grass. His head tied up in art -
everything is complicated. The sun an alien
and the spring night sky is new every spring
healed like skin.
His mind idles more and more, year by year.
Things can only be simple if you know they can be.
Nothing cleans a spoon better than a spoon, the same
way a dress is easiest unbuttoned by another.
The city woods are not separate from German brick
but the forest trees are wood.
The memories of dank rooms and loud walls are more
than the poised ears, quiet tongues and the detail
of someone else's eyelids seconds before
he revealed his own. The sun becomes an irreligious god,
that became prometheus by definition
alone yet only
It's all transparent; almost gone, except his heart.
He wants to starve it to near death so it claws
but he knows they'll say stupid man; no man.
At night, he still stands on the grass, and sees
lights on dark
with no meaning at all, as whales do.