There’s nothing for me here

in this world: the word, the hand, the gaze.

I’m a stone and they are stones to me.

Bring this empty air

to the cave,

my home.

What else to do but do it,

but burn, scratch

pictures on the walls.

Switch my skin for robes, for rags.

Switch my fur for skin, grind my teeth,

eat my lips, tear my limbs from limbs.

Bury my life, lift my face,

wail, wonder, wait

give and take,

lie, float, and say.