Maybe upon death my soul will flee to summerland
No longer will I have use of clever hands
Nor the burden of an ugly face
Hands and face planted like bulbs in the soil
While nothing but the Spirit emerges elsewhere
So let my hungry eyes see
My tongue taste
It tastes the wet that seeps down either side of my nose
Salt
All the world is salt
The fields are sown in it
Nothing can grow
But I must see everything
Notice everything let noticing take the place of screaming.