This a breeze
a puff of blur
a word too fragile
another troubling gasp
outside, the tender world
a tissue I would caress
but this fear of breaking
what is ready to crumble
stops me, so I climb
the tallest dumpster
and watch these children despair
Every man is an ant
or a walking trapezoid
I can’t keep quiet
the medicine of sound
it comes now as prophesizing twilights
I admit, that licking a wound
is another form of poem
and to walk is to flee a little
and to be alone is to create a river
I don’t write a single word to convince
but to cry
a tear of nothingness
a too-late warning
that we are slowly disappearing
and we never knew why
1
Beyond Language 