are like stones like tearing

paper are keen to the surface

of feeling are like watering can

handles are your hands are

like lights, grey, from a train

are in argument frantic are many

like the grass like the spotted orchid

are the deaths we will live

are songs are songs collected

from the hills are homesickness

for no home are old as clouds

are like wings their own wings

are two worlds they are touching

with me.