The blind sun nudges us
to sleep. We close ourselves
in the envelopes of corners
where reflections can't jump,
wings closed like two books,
soft fuzz resting on our legs.
Eyes mere creases, eyes
looking inwards. All day
we try to get closer and closer
to absolute forgetting.
Small, dark paralysis fists
crunched upside down,
hiding from everyone—hoping
to hide from everyone. Until
the world turns thick enough to
lure us into bizarre atmosphere.
The moon emits sucking noises.
Shines like a live birth.