Ships

I’m religious.

As religious as the wind or scissors.

It’s an ant, she’s religious, the flowers are red.

I don’t want to die. I don’t care if I die now.

I’m more religious than the dust in the desert.

The mouth of a child is round. My eyes are

syrup, dripping cold.

Sometimes I think I baked nettles, but

I didn’t. Sometimes I think I’m miserable, but

I’m not.

I’m religious.

I will throw a barrel into the river.

If bees rushed into my face, I’d scratch

at them with my hand and would see

again.

I don’t get upset.

The soul presses like the crowds at the door.

When I die, oxen will graze the grass just like this.

Houses will glimmer just like this.