Here they sail over a false lake, a captive canal. Still waters go nowhere. They encounter edges. Women won't call to them from balconies. III And winter comes too soon.
Bones swell up with dampness and the cold.
Boats are frozen in a corner of the garden. They wish for raw confusion. Not the knives of the doctors, bleeding winter diseases, the cold eyes of women bored by the court. Sometimes at night they dream that their bloodstreams have become canals, moving outwards, to the sea. Their lost city, carried here inside the prison of their bodies.