In the eyes of the solitary shore
this alone alone,
this is good.
Her name is being, exiled
vein and vessel.
From Eve's garden comes this summer perhaps,
and left corpses behind,
winter came, stirred the dead and their bearers,
tearing and stripping clothes away—
her name is being, mouth of artery and vein,
market and pavilion,
hanging screams;
city-dweller-cityscape…
this too is her name.
Better to erase so many names,
meaningless grass-flowers, garlands of stars,
daylong Eve's garden,
only sorrow's hand, time
...all this.
Better to erase all this.
All names become only
the long alone solitary shore and
wrinkles floating on breath;
from blood's fine thread
knots tear free,
this is good.