It is all one to him—

where he begins

and where he ends. Egg white, the white

of his eye: he says

bird milk, sperm

sliding from the word

of himself. For the eye

is evanescent,

clings only to what is, no more here

or less there, but everywhere, every

thing. He memorizes

none of it. Nor does he write

anything down. He abstains

from the heart

of living things. He waits.

And if he begins, he will end,

as if his eye had opened in the mouth

of a bird, as if he had never begun

to be anywhere. He speaks

from distances

no less far than these.