no more than a star,
a light is shining:
the heavy voice hearing the face
of the veil making its way deep,
into the soiled mud
the speed jumps,
sowing its seed of wonder
between the veil’s eyes
blinking here and after
and it flew in the desert of its skin
tossing together the sand and the smile
and touring the two:
it was the thunderous sight of the moon
the innumerableness of its steps opened
the box, smoking the day,
picking up the wind and throwing it away
the veil is just a river
pouring the gathered drops of time
into the heavy pleasure
of the painted number,
twenty-five