From my hands—take this city not made by hands,
my strange, my beautiful brother.

Take it, church by church—all forty times forty churches,
and flying up the roofs, the small pigeons; ...  [+]

Your name is a—bird in my hand,
a piece of ice on my tongue.
The lips' quick opening.
Your name—four letters.
A ball caught in flight,
a silver bell in my mouth.

A stone thrown ...  [+]