The deep parts of my life pour onward,
as if the river shores were opening out.
It seems that things are more like me now,
that I can see farther into paintings.
I feel closer to what language can’t reach.
With my senses, as with birds, I climb
Into the windy heaven, out of the oak.
And in the ponds broken off from the sky
My feeling sinks, as if standing on fishes.