DOT... LETTER... WORD...
Fundamentally, the brain
Itself sees nothing, but the more
You crawl into your brain, the more
You see, an Eden in the floor,
Lust turns into love, the desert
Saturated orange fades and shines,
At night the chilly stars hang
Comets fall in northwest lines.
Whale songs travel for a thousand
Miles. The brain of the whale, the mind,
The tempo and the intervals,
A stillness that cannot be confined.
Yaacov David Shulman