Where it says house it should say ruins,
where it says milk, it should say clay.
Whatever you hoped for is already gone or never
was, nobody will compensate the damages.
Wet dust your hands held onto,
animals charred after the storm.
Restrain your accumulated delirium: her beauty
isn’t worth even the way the sick are treated.
Plants that never grew, ceilings that rained,
blurred landscapes that turn their back on you, now
like unserved revenge. Leave it as it is:
accept the dust between your legs.
Maybe the people who preach that the world’s
a recent creation aren’t lying.
Every time round winter is weaker
and the hawthorns announce their own flowering.