Color
rises
beyond use

penetrates as
easily as a
fluid
runs.

A poet
collects
at low ground.

I give birth
to my travel
firmly
wetting
the no-place

a voyage of
no-sea
all wake all
splintering light

waves of trees 
cut by 
silver trunks.
 
There is 
a succession 
that is
made of 
itself

anciently driven
home is a 
flood to 
its edge.