His poems refuse
to mourn his passing, they
detach themselves from
books, magazines, wall hangings
I wrote a long poem
for you this morning
in the pure light
of an untouched day.
Scattered rocks lie
beneath the moss-covered boulder.
Against the sun-wall of air
the birds disguise themselves
as their own shadows,
before settling invisibly among the leaves.
Powerlines along my path bristled
with electric fire, scorching
He has better luck with women. He doesn't
obsess over them, walks next to them
with an easy gait, much like his unforced
conversation. His smile is spontaneous,
When a thing appears as a degree of intensity, we have nothing else
than the existence of the thing in a world.
The print is getting smaller
for each book I try to read.
I squeeze my sight to sharpen
those ever smaller letters, which
Don't call my name yet,
postpone that summons
as long as possible. Let
the earth begin a new orbit, faster