To pose in my hand – I invite the landscape,
invite it to call itself into question,
and then give to it a dream of abyss for ingestion,
in the spiral hand of heavens with a human shape.
That by loosening the moorings in the river
the mountain to its marbles will speak
so that a frozen sigh leading to its peak
might hold the worth of fruit in a double summer.
To the cloud, I might proselytize
the risks posed by height and morning light,
then argue that the low tide is not on the rise,
but rather every hour, set alight.
To make a shadow tame
within a rosebush, at its very gut
(To add to love what is subtracted on its name
and feed the remains to a dovecote of naught).
What if the sea might abandon its pearls
and then step out its shell… !
What would happen to these frothy swirls
if instead of splashing all over, they lay forgotten?
Who knows if the stone
that at every turn is a wonder,
to join the exact exedra would be prone,
What if the benign lane
that comes, goes and is, becomes impassable
on account of a blunder without aim:
a magnetic waterfall that rendered it pliable.
Will the trees be able to put in motion
all their elementary schools of chirping?
(I feel my desires go mixing and mingling
Like townspeople at a wedding celebration).
Over there, the river is a boy, but it is a man here,
One that gathers dark leaves in a creek.
Everybody calls him by his name, without sneer
and strokes him like a dog, one that is meek.
Which season should my guests
want to get off at? In autumn or in springtime?
Or will they wait till the foliage speaks of harvests
like an angel announcing apples at its prime?
And when the guests
finally arrive – within myself –, the gentleness
to which every corner of my being attests
shall leave them alone and, as a sign of happiness,
will show a set of ten fingers that rests