i was sure, as sure as the arms of armchairs,
that love will find me in a deserted mountain valley
while i am hunting cyclops with a fork.
and indeed, too, i was also aware
of the tragic impossibility of killing a cyclop with a fork

don't whisper words to me while i'm screaming

"one can't embrace fire without wanting to boil water"
my grandmother would instruct me before breakfast
with some such thing (i am paraphrasing, of course)
right before slipping into competitive death considerations

but i stop myself, and i calm myself, and
i push my roped logs out into the ocean
as i remember forgetting to bring a snack
and i, with a hunting knife, carve out

JENNA

sliding into a dreamy sleep with hopes
that i will not be inclined
at the end of the eternity
to cut the letters into splinters
and push them out with a blow.

there is just not enough wood for that.