It's Raining Knives
1996-2004, cast glass, artificial grass, nylon line.
Probably much still remains
To be celebrated by my voice:
That which, wordless, rubles around,
Or in darkness grinds stone underground,
Or makes its way through smoke.
I haven’t yet closed my accounts
With flame and wind and water…
Because of that, my drowsiness
Suddenly flings wide such gates to me
And leads beyond the morning star.