In a daisy field. In a garden. In a graveyard, in the sun, its valley.In the sound of nothing. Your mother and father, two treesin the distance. In the distance. In the sound of the whistle,someone banishing you again. A hand in the distance, a greeting.In a greeting, a question. How old are you? Six? Seventeen?In your body, aging, an immediacy. A flower, a new arm.Eat the apple. Your lips redden. The person you were,you are always becoming. Their breath spilling overyour neck. A breath, a shore, a whistle, a knife. Where is the wind?In love, the wounds you tend. A wound, a door, a lake, a fence.Whatever is perpendicular to your becoming. Time is a terrible statue.The tide will eat its skin. To prevent heartbreak, practice disappearing.All the eels are missing. You are an expert in missing. A mouth,a lock, a gate, a key. Open your mouth and throw the word yetinto the river. Into the river, your face leaking glass. A face,a flood, a crystal, a dove. Someday, you will be in love again.The sun, a wound on your windowsill. Light fallson your dreams. It sounds like someone knocking.