Obedient as a bundle,
parked in your careful shawls,

you will not fall
into the exertions
of the earth under you,

having spilled,
on your way to becoming,
your skill in Being.

Sunlight excessively
illumines your deep eyelids

domed awnings
over the somnolent
reluctance of your sight—

inverted cups
of mortal ivory,
almost emptied.