Hurry back, stooped, bent against the door Somehow in the frame of what went before you No need to turn the light on The room just lit by the new sun rising A dull glow beneath the edges of the heavy green curtains
See the sycamore tree, hung with new cocoons I rummage in the dawn light with the other young baboons The sky is crying hot air balloons You pull the ropes And you can choose the direction in which you are going
A scar curved like a hook in the valley in the middle of your back Eddies of dust whirling out of the cracks Look now: The cornfield Look again: It has completely disappeared
