On warm roving grass we lay like brothers etymologically related. A cemetery of parlour breath.
Side by side something happened: each of our bodies began to sprout a book branching out of us in paper type and covers. The bark of the tree joined it. It grew to this size.
The book of the one was the book of the other (as the body of both of us might have been the same).
The flowers of the park are the flowers of the poems that don't have to sob more than their petals do, they fell here on the pages and the harbour started falling through the words.
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What is this book? This book is revelation made of water grass stones our bodies big house roses revolution bridal veil something from the dead.