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There are measures that can be taken to ward off death.
None of them match the unidentifiable birds
pecking at their own shit on the windowsill,
the white paint of yesterday.


Who did I ever need to tell me their names?
And why are we trapped in space with only
our murderous science, our categories
that only kill?


Who can tell me, who can tell me?
No one has told me.
This chair alone is an empire of sadness,
of stricken lives.


This thatch of fibers, whole highways
of microscopic beings,
hurls its numbed weight under me
every time I become too tired to stand.