more unreliable than death is
more like milk regurgitated than the one-year-old sky is
more lust retained than the womb has

flying    over-bright butterflies fly out of the fissure

before the entrance to the next life    will the dead shiver
remember this newly-shaped pink phlegm or not
desperately avoiding the sound of rain in the bathtub 
unable to avoid    the pillow bleached by all-night sex

when a looking balcony is being looked at 
swans lost every day in thoughts of flowing water

father    overgrown one-year-old park still waits out there
we are carried in the arms to this side of the skin
expelled by the hostile glass eye of an empty wine bottle
returning    learned from a melting mare how to breathe