Poets

the memory, when it gives up one remembrance after another, goes blind with its own words. in empty rooms you touch

you look to the border through your eyes. dispersed settlement, the decaying skin of the houses. you in those rooms as a child. beyond that paths lacing around the lines of sight. stomach

barred bunker walls lie at the head of the island impelled the sea laps as it will long-gone hands have bound single feathers to fingers thick wires in the stone