I share my emotion like a windmill
Turning, turning, brushing the ephemeral on.
Mourners gather:
Life is taken and I cry for a substitute
corpse
On a substitute day,
Lean my head against the window-cross
As the bagpipes play and the players march.
The breeze must be pleasant under their kilts
but even agony is pleasant these days
because its absence is the numb-
oblivion-destiny.
I wonder to define myself but
Selves are
indefinite like the shape of wind and the
direction of water.
Is Eve a beginning or an end? a joy ride?
Or electric shock treatment from a distance
that burrows deeper than a a coffin maggot?
Eve is the mythical worm that settles
inquiry too early.
Eve is the ipso facto that stops the
question and evades the answer.
