Drunk, whiteness hoards its strength,

When you sleep, sun drunk, like a seed

That holds its breath

Beneath the soil. To dream in heat

All heat

That infests the equilibrium

Of a hand, that germinates

The miracle of dryness…

In each place you have left

Wolves are maddened

By the leaves that will not speak.

To die. To welcome red wolves

Scratching at the gates: howling

Page—or you sleep, and the sun

Will never be finished.

It is green where black seeds breathe.