All Culture Developed As Some Wild, Raw

Maybe The World, Without Us, Is The Real Poem.

At Blackwater Pond The Tossed Waters Have Settled After A Night Of Rain. I Dip My Cupped Hands. I Drink A Long Time. It Tastes Like Stone, Leaves, Fire. It Falls Cold Into My Body, Waking The Bones. I Hear Them Deep Inside Me, Whispering Oh What Is That Beautiful Thing That Just Happened?

I Very Much Wished Not To Be Noticed, And To Be Left Alone, And I Sort Of Succeeded.

What Misery To Be Afraid Of Death. What Wretchedness, To Believe Only In What Can Be Proven.

Who Knows What Will Happen Or Where I Will Be Sent, Yet Already I Have Given A Great Many Things Away, Expecting To Be Told To Pack Nothing, Except The Prayers Which, With This Thirst, I Am Slowly Learning.