The Holes

Suddenly I remember the holes,

Suddenly I think of a man with no entrances,

no exits, the closed man, with feelers or claws

so sensitive that he can tell

what rock is, or flesh, water, or flame.

Where does everything go when it comes in?

What should I do with the pure speech of cells

where we find ourselves?

The river flies, the dusk crawls into the ground,

the streets get up and leave,

the sun recklessly feeds our blood.

We could be crouching on the branch, we could be

gnawing the brown feathers and thighs of a new animal,

we could be plotting under the ice while others dream.

But I want the infinite man who sleeps

in my veins to rise, I want to hear

the thin buzzing that floats out of my chest

like an arm of locusts making terrible decisions.

Sometimes I want to die because of this.