the wind carries the smoke across the heather
the wind carries the smoke over the harbor
the wind carries the smoke across the heather
a shape all light
the room is all light
after heaven, after heaven
we were particles
it has nothing to do with language
language is a spray
a shape made after the weather
after the water
you sit there in the back, intuiting directions
hole of light, bitter spray
experience, Young says, is the process
not the past
it’s better to walk without directions
on the first day of spring
two substances like smoke and foam
the first day of spring begins
stay near me in abstract heaven
I can only hear you breathing