My Father's gone.
No phone will break
the night
to cry
about his death
Alone, I cry
under a carob tree
I've never seen before
God-knows-where
will I see him again,
planted
in God-knows-which-
form
It's getting out of the cocoon. How does the hen correspond with a butterfly, you ask. See, everything's connected somehow with all the rest. So let the hen take her time. Grab a blanket if you wish, and disappear under its vastness. If a moth happens there, and eats your clothes it just proves the above rule. Stay in your body; may it contain you while you speed through the galaxies of your fancy In the meantime in the room upstairs lives an old woman In the crack of a wooden floor She keeps your single hair How did it find its way there is your secret power. You must find her whereabouts where, bit by bit, you become real She can teach you how to spindle, how to break the thread, how to prick your finger, how to fall out of grace In her chamber you can get invisible for some time, some hundred years if that is what is necessary until you bleed zinnias all the way down the stairs at the backyard the hen scratches her head as she hatches petals ...
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