Soon the rushlights will go out in the flesh of sympathetic bodies once close to my own hand and I will go to my hammock， thinking of little except the numbness¹ that alone makes bearable the wind's twisting.

    I want atoms to separate like hairs or dust onto the heads of my daughters.

    I want to violate the edict that traps my hunger in cages and away from her rough shoulder and once to be enough for this and all the loves that flicker² through my bedroom before sleep.

    They keep me awake， and tonight they are fierce as whips or as needles to make the skin crawl.

    I want to drift like the poui in a southerly wind and settle where I need to before the faces erode，my appetite of iron caulking³ the egg-shell heart.