The bones of the head, the heart that beats in secret,
The pathways of the blood I can not see,
The tunneling of the dream, old Proteus,
The viscera, the nape, the skeleton.
I am all those things. Incredibly,
I am also the memory of a blade
And a solitary sun sinking downward
Dispersing into gold, into shade, and then nothing.
I am the one that sees the bows coming to port;
I am numbered books, the numbered
Engravings worn away by time;
I am the one with jealousy for the dead.
It is even stranger to be the man stitching together
All the words inside of the room of a house.
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