As opposed to the world,
 from the car window watching
everything? All roads moving
movement, jag
                       ged engines
 underneath, spirit, for spirit
 is known     it shall hide it

As opposed now to the world
 we are it's movement

 it's sadness onwards moving
  on and on
              even if we learn
  how to smile it's sadness
                        we have
         hidden with our hands

 Our hand-branches
                 sucking screens
  there too white and black
the little particles do not
                       quite disappear

          Blinking, the tears
             are they bright now
             or only s n o w w o r d s;
             every tiny letter
          beyond our sad eyes

        Yes, these collapsing pictures
                collapse us too
                even if we call them
                lucid dreams they're real
                in awakening wiped
                also from the corners
                                      of eyes
                                          years, thousands ...

         This road, this one, seemingly ending
                 for us, not leading anywhere
          but the underbrush, the trees
                 which me may not see through

          We may not see through
                them, the trees, their givers
                vaporlike beings
                trickling down
          the dead and living leaves

          the ones that set their roots to the ground
                                     out of the bones
                                           of ones passed before
          
           in their darknesses they gave
               the open space carried they
                     to the peak of the collapsed sea
              
           built this,
            everything
            un-everything
          
           Un-needing
           they did not
           as we do now;
           Knowing they knew
              how to die,
           to die, to accept a threshold
                      of being touched

            And, now, us,
                     un-giving, afraid
                     we with our bodies
            in our darknesses grow
            yet watching in fear
                  the ones only existing

            From there, too, the poem
                                      as if by accident
                      lets in the light to gleam
                                 on the mossy tree
                      strewn across the sunken glade

            And even if the light may not tell us,
                    or they or their passed-ons
                                     may not give anything
                                     everything
                                     but the nothing

                                           as if they are alive
                                     as if we ever were
                                                   nothing but
                                                   nothing yes,

                                                   the drop still falls.