What will you do, God, when I die?
If I become the mountain—
If I become the prayer, Santiago—
O, when I die. Would the eye
Blue-burst into Nothing.
Slipping past need, would I
Slip past that which speaks
Into me. Say you cannot believe
In an I that is less when I die—
Go. Guapa, Circle bells in a city.
Twist longing as ropes, keep love
Inside. With tongue-heavy song
Tell Mary of the Mare—
Gut her. Strange light-speak.