your cloak is thin,
you suffer from exposure.
Still I sense some spectral
fertility in you.
Is it your tow-line in the blood,
your cleansing rinse that
brings us back to the womb fresh?
I would bring you my end,
waft across your body
with clownish footsteps,
let me spring lightly one last time
when my bones are old.
When I'm tired and the air tanks
are running out
like an old electric record
whose source is far
I will remove my mask
and let you undo these lines
unfold these creases
unravel me far out
into many worlds.
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