Desire was a quotation from someone.

Someone says, This This. Someone says, Is.

The tribe confronts a landscape of ice.

He says, I will see you in the parallel life.

She says, A miser has died from cold; he spoke all his sentences and meant no harm.

My voice is clipped, yours a pattern of dots.

Three unmailed have preeceded this, a kind of illness.

Now I give you these lines without any marks, not even a breeze.

dumb words mangled by use

like reciting a lesson or the Lord's Prayer.

How lovely the unspeakable must be. You have only to say it and it tells a story.

A few dead and a few missing

and the tribe to show you its tongue. It has only one.

Michael Palmer, do livro Sun (1988)