In the field is a house

of wood. A window of the house

contains the field.

You can't see far

with a sun in the sky,

with a living-room lamp

at night. Locality is all

you light, and you, as single

as a bed. But there's

no end to dark. The bed is in the clearing

and the clearing's in the wind; the world

is a world among others. Now your cell-stars split.