The left hand of darkness is light walking backward.
The absolute is the runaway smell of an ancient rain.
The mouth we kiss is not the mouth we stake our fate on.
Look: the throb of light is the cool breeze of years to be.
The shore of detachment is away from the sleeping seaweed.
The fists are open for the air to smile them away.
Nothing is less our own than the ashes the wind is keeping.
Look: the sun and the body both rush to a destination of light.
Wakefulness is a familiar dream of the dry face of canvas.
Wakefulness: the longing so filled with the gestures of light,
it no longer knows the border between word and silence
and cuts through it calmly like a swimmer into a hypothetical wave.