The poem
We'll return the little box Into the arms Of her inconspicuously honest properties
We won't do anything Against her will We'll simply take her apart
We'll crucify her On her own cross
Piece her bloated emptiness And let ooze All the blue cosmic blood she gathered
We'll sweet her clean of stars And anti-stars And everything else that rots inside her
We won't make her suffer We'll simply put her together again
We'll give back to the little box Her pure inconspicuousness