i want to crawl beneath eternity and watch her breathe. i want to understand the particulars of an ending: how it complains, and why it does; what makes it blush, what makes it stop. i want birds, innumerable, impossible to count. i want to reach through the slim folds of infinity and touch her soft centre. i want to fracture my fingers stirring the earth, uprooting cosmologically impossible odds: tiny rivers, the brass heart of a sand tiger, the mourning sun moulting in her nest of corners. i want a still, calm inlet, lit by silver fish, i want to swim across to see you, quietly stricken by the hands of gravity pulling us down toward the grave and how beautiful it is to be identified this way, as if mistaken for a chorister among the many small voices that dance their feet numb under the satin bed of night and then to be part of them, a chip in the distant sky.