The air lay soffly on the green furof the almond, it was Apriland I said, I begin againbut my hands burned in the damp earththe light ran between my fingersa black light like no otherthis was not home, the linnetsettling on the oleanderthe green pod swellingthe leaf slowly untwistingthe slashed egg fallen from the nestthe tongue of grass tastingI was being told by a pulse slowingin the eyesthe dove mourning in shadowa nerve waking in the grointhe distant hillsturning their white heads awaytold by the clouds assemblingin the trees, told by the bloomingof a black mouth beneath the rosethe worm sobbing, the dustsettling on my eyelid, toldby salt, by water, told and told.
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