When people sleep by a pile of gravel in a new town,
when people queue up in front of a music studio
to record screams in all languages,
and when underwater forests shake because the earth swells up,
we know that these are not new beginnings, not tender arrivals.
The terror of the earth is an imbecile running with a gun in his head.
Wood is an axe lost in a stream. Clouds are voiceless.
I sit astride the axis of the earth and eat fried crickets of underwater forests
before what is called time wears out and expires.
I sit on young grass between two angry mountain goats. I hear somebody belch.
The smell of burnt undergrowth twirls up from his lips
and disperses in the air that roofs the earth like a steel dome.
Underwater forests dig up old cemeteries in people’s consciousness.
Cornfields bite off birds’ legs. I try to not doze off although I am
so tired after traveling. The number of people underwater is greater
than the number of people on earth. In a killing field which is now a museum,
people light candles, skulls laugh themselves sick.