A window for seeing
A window for hearing
A window like a well
that ends deep in the heart of the earth
and opens out into this expanse of recurring blue kindness
A window that overfills the tiny hands of loneliness
with its nightly gift: the perfume of generous stars
And from there one could invite the sun
to the geraniums in exile
One window is enough for me

A child walks by,
clutching in its small hand 
the blueprint of happiness. 

Maria, you are dead.
But you probably knew that.
We miss you.

Now he is embarrassed even to ask her for a cigarette. His mother would not have refused him, but his mother doesn’t smoke. Neither does he. It was only a pretext.

honing their teeth
on the current
that is always against them.

                                                  Plato

                                                  in his tree

Once I walked
through a forest.
It was high
in the mountains.
The air was clear and thin.
The stars shone brightly,
the outline of the forest canopy in sharp relief
like the background
to a stop-motion silhouette fairy tale.

Would shy cereus or sugar glider,
swing-shift foreman or taxi driver,
call the day better
than the night?

Or say the moon
has only one side,
that which we can see?

Is a dollar worth more
face up in a palm
and less face down?

Who would wish for only
a right hand?
Does anyone still call the left
sinister?

Forgotten, shabby and long time abandoned
          in stubbled fur, with broken
teeth like toggles, the old gods are leaving.

At home now the first grey 
in the hollows, morning in 
the grass, in the brick