Notes . .

A writer sometimes retains only those poems that find no place. A strange ineffable experience of the mind, its enormous success of self love.

I rush I run

Almost fierce

Cannot be

Until Am is Am

My very veins

In its desire to be

Night’Comes

Covers us in blue

In the instant

Of this instant

Memory invents

Another present

A circular courtyard

With superstitious

Flashes of light

Intended to cover

Every crack in our horizon

Mimic

The eternities of a second

My whole life to solve

Pitiless searches for a body

To grow old with

Nameless sensations

Such a cruel thing

To miss the dead

With this immeasurable clarity

Like gravid drops of hope

Spinning over itself

Tirelessly, till we learn

How to love, again . .

Nobody Knows

We live in identical rooms

We blankly wake, we greet

From one balcony to another

Successively for a hundred years

Between now and tomorrow

We will spend the rest of our days

Growing gardens out of angry stars

To me,

the world spins 

ready to loose, and peal

comparable to a star

proudly moving through water

there is no equal,  more beautiful 

than her roseness at my feet

i admit here, i seek shelter 

a shelter of brightness 

when most of my most, is dark

cross high and unstrange