A shy, an intimate room. It was after the trees, even after the movement of my fingers through light, through skin, through landscape after landscape. A bare piece to chew on, that is what poetry is like down to the smallest details. Then I saw the third night in the stillness, in the distance. Do not seek shelter in the river of another language, but learn it. And down through the skin to the bones, glittering-glittering, and through the bones until darkness merges with marrow.