Now that I am ready to write about the world,
the metaphors hinder like love,
like the love of body.
Now that we are ready to describe the world,
who will believe anything here?
The world, not as world, but as the body of the world.
Death is reduced to security for the ones around the dead.
Life is a living.
Truth doesn't appear but figures itself,
now countable, now spent like love is undertaken.
A goal like everything else.
To get to passion.
To kick compassion into a bruise.
And poetry is useful
and too small like the world
and its cover.