Overwhelming, the stop-motion of a world; is all the world so quiet to me.

She was sleeping. So peaceful when we are still–and they, are still.

How I miss the pond that never rippled. Outside home, the white swans,

Where did they all go? Travelled to oceans that move so fully, and slowly

–a paradise of girth. And we all get older, find others, in shapes of

Whatever, find affections, whatever it is to us–at evening meals, speaking

to us

In the not moving creases of rooms, corners of homes, humanness. It is

A weeping–a weeping murmur, in a corner sat, in mornings it slips

Back part on part to us, and so we can then weep in the day. The way

sunrise

Lights them–and sets upon bodies and brooks, painted onto the being,

Unseeable the arms, and legs, and breasts, until painted awake; I was once

Made of hearts and more revered the heart–longed the dense clinching

Flesh, and then, longed only a time, a still day, without its constrictions.