*

It’s a simple thing, you weep
and though your eyes are silent
they don’t reach –what you see

is your heart covered with stones
that have no mornings either
except far off where all mist starts

the oceans are grieving on the bottom
holding down your forehead
–so easy a flower could do it

say in its face-up way, Leave!
there will be no more kisses
and from your mouth all Earth

overflows, becomes lips and distances
–that’s why nobody asks you
lets you imagine you see her clearly

knitting a blanket, a white one
rusted needles in both hands, you
walking by, already thorns, roots.