Perched on my shoulders, this cogitation
like a thick sky, imprinted in dark yellows
and clear greys of some engrossed sundown.
How long did it take to be woven of tangled
sights and lapses of trees, spun, telling
themselves leaf by fabled leaf, or yarn
by slowly twisted yarn around the fingers,
the words, along the path?
(Will you strip me of it, moment by
moment unravelled by lips, will you
rewrite us, supple, in hues of night
aglow and loose, devoid of trees
but lavish in fruits strewing, ripe,
the end of the path?
Will you fly us, then, and the words,
to the beginning, in transparent
filaments, of a sky, fine and ductile
as a water-coloured dawning, where, in
raw time, I may read you – and me, naked
and revived?)
