to paris, like a sea creature taken
by the wind, then snapped back.
the hidden sun here knows not
my hotness for earth, which i keep
closed and secret.
you, who are so believable,
eavesdrops on all the languages,
tangible and intangible. you who hold the
infinite pace that spreads, and spreads.
like death or Rodin’s garden in winter.
like your slow breaths in the night,
such faint music. how to transpose it?
in what time and which key? better
to let the silent stay, i think, and keep it
as a strange&wild phenomenon in the
middle of spring, disguised as rock or
a climbing scrub. mute like the hours.
‘love’ is not. ‘eternal’ is not.
you do not obey to meaning. 

shhh…no words anymore. no smooth white clouds
anymore. no intoxication or men’s company anymore.
my soul lives in air and i can’t bear the scent anymore.
in the dark, only he knows the river stones like fishermen,
the small curves of my waist that tremble, all soul
a flame. 

shhh…no one, no one knows anymore
the maddening truth - that audacity of ecotones. in spring
times the tendril of passions can overwhelm any brownstone
like ivy. the sea enters and pulls back all the unnecessary
flowers. they make me stop and ponder about
courage.

paris21

fate of nations veering like any man’s 

on the soft hills of paris. if i could paint, i’d paint

it as undulating anemones dressed by sleeves

of water: just the affect of another unwatched host.

swish — it could all go with the northeasternly

diagonally across our last moment. all laurels taken.

not another voice was needed. ok, maybe just

a sweet little whispering or a moan.

cherry red ‘oh’s to throbs of time.