dead branches, little willow chillens, the paws of gordon on the kitchen linos the half-fit morning window from where light sputs forth in little bird beaks, little bird beaks who sing new language; i am soul and body compressed through a neck breaking the egg (to make scrambled, to harden omelettes with cheese, to soak in beer) bread baker batters the yeast; another silent morning till the doors are opened and you walk through in your new jacket carved from memory, the lines as simple as echoes in the hallway (where the old woman placed your portrait so that you shouldn't forget your aging, and even on your death bed it still rang clear in your head as you mulled the whole insanity of life through and through again) crashing underneath the bed-spread in the room which was kept empty for three years after your death: one final vision of your dead daughter there in the prime of her life waiting to take you by the hand, to lead you into that other you had been awaiting.