
then blackens. What happens
to the soul? Does it
arrow north or south, a flock
of Arctic terns? Does it
stir the limp limbs
of a fetus
in its bubble? Or does it
crumble, a fist
of dry oak leaves?
I squat between a murmuring metropolis
and a cacophonous town.
I visit. I roam their streets alone.
Strange tongues point like fingers.
Read my book, Good Friday 2000, for free.