In the high winter wheat

that blew us across

this no man’s land,

in the couplings of our anger

below these nameless white weeds,

and because I lodged, everlastingly,

a flower in hell, I tell you

of the opening of my eye

beyond being,

of my being beyond being

only one,

and how I might acquit you

of this hiddenness, and prove to you

that I am

no longer alone,

that I am not

even near myself

anymore.