on the white of this paper
i’m a bird wandering in the mist

but

all the deaths have been born
all the lives have been lived
all the births have been died

it knows my toys
my limping my false passports
my favourite sorts of trees
my lies grown in the back of the house
my birth signs
the horizon towards which i’m heading
like a drifting continent

it lets me to grope blinded by light
smiles at my absurd strains
doesn’t tell me a word

i squeeze it in my fists
make it a pellet
and swallow it up