Being oneself: the last and worst exclusion,
unit's enclosure of communal nothing.
	There is a prison,
or a deserted village, in my breathing:
	where is your strength, soft bitter one,
	to hurl stones at another stone,
breaking its windows?  or to break your own?

Setting of action: the falling blood
in the picture; or the behind-a-pictures inns
	to which all roads lead:
flowing and fighting through a million loins
	I am born a coloured stone
	to hurl bones at another bone
under the barren claw of a closed moon.