STARS, SCATTERSTILL. Constellations of people and quiet. Those nights when nothing catches, nothing also is artless. I walked for hours in those forests, my legs a canvas of scratches, trading on the old hopes—we were meant to be lost. But being lost means not knowing what it means. Inside the meadow is the grass, rich with darkness. Inside the grass is the wish to be rooted, inside the rain the wish to dissolve. What you think you live for you may not live for. One star goes out. One breath lifts inside a crow inside a field.
(les poèmes Winter field et Some feel rain, du recueil Circadian, ici)