The last snow is baited.
Where the future shatters
it unbends.
The dry bed of entirety,
where the sun bends,
shatters.

I was not afraid to tell you:
unobscene
at the first and then
the third horizon,
a copse-mountain
opened so near to me
I weighed nothing,
and you laid the flower in my mouth.

These are not animals.
These are the partial genocides
deeply uncompensated.
Under the grass
there is nothing but water
and two wings.