no name, no grave, no home
the nameless sung by the nameless

and add to that no sound
silent, but loud

the idea is like a boat sliding by
read pearls, beginning to roll
internal cries of cliffs beginning to resemble the sea

the grass of passion decreases
on the basis of us, decreases

wordless, but not quite silent
unless to say love, unless not to speak
—there is leftover gunpowder in this line
becoming a simplified beginning

poetry is a sky giving this its performance