Beyond the man making salt where crumbling shadows cross, there are old attendants being handled by the wind.
Fields where once salt rose piled like snowy peaked hills.

There are reeds darkening, robed in shabbiness.

One autumn as I walked along empty field-ridges I saw flocks of birds they were spitting out like pain. They were embedded in the far-off void like so many broken points.

The day, eager to have an arrow hanging from its bent body, is gone while every conspiracy commanded a leaf of the twilight glow

If the wind too has strata, only evening will remain in their fossils.

My resolution was not the vibration driving time’s pendulum. Like a scar drawn by the daytime crescent moon, a family head was bent double after weeping in the voice of wind

There is wind inside Father’s bones. I have to walk the whole of that wind.