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But the wind blew through me like I was a hologram. If you say I am a mystic, then fine: I’m a mystic. The trees are not trees, anyway.

“And that,” he said, pointing to the last building on the island, “that’s the other synagogue. I wouldn’t go there if you paid me.”

Undone, I’d like my last thoughts to rhyme: I did not lend you my love. The end.

Are you such a dreamer, To put the world to rights?

For all park is policy, all verse is nurse, Every habitat a cradle for the soul. At least for the time being.

Between each telephone wire, I undress my memory to when he saw the sky and land touch in prayer

And for an hour I fly without thought, without any feeling except the smooth stone joy of doing something that takes everything.

Still will I harvest beauty where it grows: In coloured fungus and the spotted fog