Why are there so many triangles in my fear?
Some oval fish ate my joy,
only a box left empty
but for its red swollen soul;
how did you get that chain reaction lodged in your face,
god what handwork in that knitted viel
the wool has the age of a spiral
and the shine of measurements –
parallel to the material of gasps,
little tales of windows
peering into the empty
square of a life