Waning moon. Rising now. Creak, it goes. Deep over the exhausted continents. I wonder says my fullness. Nobody nobody says the room in which I lie very still in the darkness watching. Your heart says the moon, waning & rising further. Where is it. Your keep, your eyes your trigger finger your spine your reasoning—also better to refuse touch, keep distance, let the blood run out of you and the white stars gnaw you, & the thorn which is so white outside in the field, & the sand which is sheetening on the long beach, the soldiers readying, the upglance swift when the key words, of prayer, before capture, are uttered, a shiver which has no hate but is not love, is neutral, yes, un- blooded, as where for instance a bud near where a hand is unlocking a security-catch calls out, & it is an instance of the nobody-there, & the sound of water darkens, & the wind moves the grasses, & without a cry the cold flows like a watchdog’s eyes, the watchdog keeping his eye out for difference—only difference—& acts being committed in your name, and your captives arriving at your detention center, there, in your eyes, the lockup, deep in your pupil, the softening-up, you paying all your attention out, your eyes, your cell, your keep, your hold, after all it is yours, yes, what you have taken in, grasp it, grasp this, there is no law, you are not open to prosecution, look all you’d like, it will squirm for you, there, in this rising light, protected from consequence, making you a ghost, without a cry, without a cry the evening turning to night, words it seemed were everything and then the legal team will declare them exempt, exemptions for the lakewater drying, for the murder of the seas, for the slaves in their waters, not of our species, exemption named go forth, mix blood, fill your register, take of flesh, set fire, posit equator, conceal origin, say you are all forgiven, say these are only counter-resistant coercive interrogation techniques, as in give me your name, give it, I will take it, I will re- classify it, I will withhold you from you, just like that, for a little while, it won’t hurt much, think of a garden, take your mind off things, think sea, wind, thunder, root, think tree that will hold you up, imagine it holding you up, choose to be who you are, quick choose it, that will help. The moon is colder than you think. It is full of nothing like this stillness of ours. We are trying not to be noticed. We are in stillness as if it were an other life we could slip into. In our skins we dazzle with nonexistence. It is a trick of course but sometimes it works. If it doesn’t we will be found, we will be made to scream and crawl. We will long to be forgiven. It doesn’t matter for what, there are no facts. Moon, who will write the final poem. Your veil is flying, its uselessness makes us feel there is still time, it is about two now, you are asking me to lose myself. In this overflowing of my eye, I do.