I have no idea why the sky
is yellow where it meets the ground,
why my knife is small, why the man in the suit
on the roof cannot reach the knob.
Why is the gate open?
Is it the nightingale who knows.
What is above is made of blue air,
darker towards the heaven.
The arch in the grass could tumble
and spill into a jar. There is myself,
too, who lies on the ground sleeping.
Where have I gone? The nightingale
swallowed my heart while singing last night.
We are without mercy.
The handle on the side of the house
is a tiny plane’s propeller.
The man carries a girl in his arms
like a bag of water.
He is about to fly and may spill her.