I transformed into this thing, this beautiful 
black howl: wolves & storms
of white trigonometries
& along my veins sailors’ flutes are singing.
Body caught by knowing,
like an inflamed throat, the immense 
perception of knees.
This is the weapon: knowledge 
with its hundred corridors, 
its dark orange trees.
I stop at the edge of my breath 
as if beside a door.
Nobody comes, nobody weeps.
How beautiful: indifference at midnight,
light falling mute over the blue trucks.
& when the time comes to die there will be 
only this syllable, this tongue 
that can no longer pass beyond its husk.